s  it  1 


a  (u  r . 


THE 


MONEY-MAKER, 


OTHER     TALES. 


BY 

JANE  C.   CAMPBELL, 


Look,  then,  into  thy  heart,  and  write  ! 
Yes,  into  life's  deep  stream  !  LONGFELLOW. 

Society,  perhaps,  more  than  any  other  element  of  life,  gives  scope  to  the  extremes  of 
fact  and  fiction,  of  caprice  and  devotion,  of  frankness  and  feigning.  On  the  one  hand  it 
is  a  most  complete  masquerade,  and  on  the  other  a  profound  reality. 

T0CKERMAN. 


NEW  YOEK: 

J.    C.    DERBY,   8   PARK    PLACE. 

BOSTON  :  PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON  &  CO. 

CINCINNATI  :     H.    \V.    DERBY. 

1854. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 

JAMES    C.    DERBY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


THOMAS   B.   SMITH,  PRINTED  BT 

STEREOTYPED  &  ELECTROTYPES.  JOHN  A.    GRAY 

216  William  Street.  97  Cliff  St. 


DEDICATORY. 

To  thee,  beloved,  in  thy  distant  home, 
And  the  dear  dwellers  in  thy  household  shrine, 
"Whose  love,  and  life,  are  closely  bound  with  thin*) 
Speeds  forth  my  heart,  a  pilgrim  to  old  Rome. 


2200637 


PAGE 

MONEY-MAKER. 9 

CHRISTINE 39 

CATHARINE  CLAYTON 65 

PAUL  TALBOT 169 

EGBERT  DUNNING    . 194 

BLANCHE  ACHESON 216 

FARMER'S  DAUGHTER 274 

THE  SEAMSTRESS         . ': 310 

THE  FIRST  STEP 328 

A  WIFE'S  LOVE 335 

LAZY  PHILANTHROPY 343 


CHAPTER    I. 

AS,  while  a  cold,  dark  current  is  fretting  underneath,  the 
surface  of  a  stream  may  be  bright  and  placid,  glassing 
the  tranquil  beauty  of  a  summer  heaven,  and  mirroring  the 
glory  of  the  silent  stars ;  even  so  while  the  smile  is  on  the 
lip,  and  the  light  word  on  the  tongue,  there  may  be  gloom 
within  the  heart,  and  a  brooding  tempest  in  the  soul — for 
life,  too,  has  its  under-current  of  thought,  feeling,  suffering, 
which  are  seldom,  if  ever,  known. 

We  are  not  disposed  to  dwell  on  the  dark  side  of  life's 
picture,  and  to  find  naught  but  sadness  and  sorrow  on  the 
earth ;  on  the  contrary,  we  gladly  drink  in  every  gleam  of 
sunshine  with  which  God  brightens  our  daily  path,  and 
hopefully  look  to  see  a  rainbow  shining  from  every  cloud. 
So,  too,  though  we  see  many  repeatedly  giving  way  to  temp- 
tation, until  the  power  of  resistance  is  gone,  yet  have  we 
not  lost  our  faith  in  human  nature,  for  man,  though  "  far 
gone  from  original  righteousness,"  still  retains  the  impress 
of  his  origin. 

"  Trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
From  God,  who  is  our  home." 

But  to  our  story. 

1* 


10  THE     MONEY-MAKEK. 

"  Did  not  Mrs.  Mervin  look  superbly  beautiful  to- 
night?  As  she  passed  me  in  her  robe  of  black- velvet, 
studded  with  brilliants,  with  the  diamond  circlet  on  her 
brow,  I  could  not  help  repeating — 

'  I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 

Sweep  through  her  marble  halls ! 
I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 
From  the  celestial  walls  T  " 

"  For  shame,  Dudley !  it  is  a  desecration  of  the  poet's 
beautiful  imagery  to  apply  it  to  such  a  woman." 

"  Come,  come,  Herbert,  you  are  too  fastidious.  Mrs. 
Mervin  is  an  ambitious,  fashionable  woman ;  but  tell  me, 
where  is  the  woman  who  is  not  ambitious,  and  who  would 
not  if  she  could,  be  a  leader  of  the  fashion  ?  You  expect 
too  much  from  them.  You  expect  that  although  sur- 
rounded by  temptations  to  luxury  in  living,  and  extrava- 
gance in  dress,  they  will  wear  the  garb  of  Quakers,  and 
eat  the  bread  of  anchorites.  Recollect,  though  you  are  a 
descendant  of  the  Knickerbockers,  you  are  not  living  in  the 
primitive  days  of  the  veritable  Diedrich.  So  just  take 
the  sex  as  you  find  them.  A  pretty  woman  is  always  a 
pleasant  plaything,  a  little  silly,  perhaps — but  that  is  no- 
thing. She  can  waltz  as  well,  and  sing  as  well,  and  talk  as 
well,  as  any  other  puppet ;  and  this  is  all  that's  wanting  to 
while  away  an  idle  hour." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  that  you  are  a  brother,  Dudley  ? 
Have  you  forgotten  Alice  ?" 

Dudley's  cheek  glowed  with  honest  pride  at  the  mention 
of  his  sister's  name,  for  ho  thought  what  fond  bachelor 
brothers  will  sometimes  think,  that  in  the  wide  world  could 
not  be  found  another  woman  like  his  sister. 


THE     MONEY-MAKER.  11 

"  I  was  but  jesting  with  you,  Herbert.  You  know  that 
I  yield  to  none  in  my  high  appreciation  of  the  noble  and 
truthful  in  female  character ;  and  I  regret  that  so  few 
woman  have  firmness  sufficient  to  enable  them  to  turn  from 
the  allurements  of  the  world,  and  find  their  happiness  in 
the  sanctuary  of  a  quiet  home.  To  own  the  truth,  it  can 
hardly  be  expected  from  them.  They  are  educated  for 
show,  they  are  dressed  for  show,  they  are  paraded  for  show, 
and  what  wonder  that  so  many  marry  for  show  !  So  long 
as  mothers  take  pains  to  initiate  their  daughters  into  the 
art  and  mystery  of  '  how  to  get  married,  and  whom  to 
marry,'  so  long  as  they  teach  them  that  the  crowning  glory 
of  womanhood  is  to  make  a  good  match,  so  long  will  woman 
be  frivolous  and  heartless,  caring  more  for  wealth  than 
worth,  and  prizing  more  the  money  than  the  man.  Now, 
this  is  all  that  Mrs.  Mervin  has  done,  and  I  wonder  you 
are  so  embittered  against  her." 

"  No,  this  is  not  all.  She  is  not  only  ambitious  but  false- 
hearted. When  she  married  Mervin,  she  knew  that  act 
would  crush  to  the  dust  one  who  had  long  loved  her,  one 
whom  she  had  flattered  with  the  belief  that  he  was  beloved. 
But  what  to  her  were  wasted  affections — for  it  does  not  hold 
true  that  '  affection  never  is  wasted; 'what  to  her  were 
broken  vows,  when  damask  lounges  and  diamond  circlets 
might  be  had  in  exchange  ?" 

"  And  so  the  lady  has  been  a  jilt !  Now,  if  she  had  been 
the  jilted,  she  might  have  brought  an  action  for  breach  of 
promise,  and  so  found  a  golden  cure  for  the  heart-ache,  eh, 
Herbert  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  she  would  have  been  mercenary  enough  even 
for  such  a  despicable  transaction.  How  she  ever  obtained 
such  an  influence  over  Carlton  is  unaccountable." 


12  THE     MONEY-MAKEK. 

t:  But  you  forget  that  I  do  not  know  the  story,  and  can- 
not enter  into  the  merits  of  the  case.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
Mrs.  Mervin  is  not  so  much  to  blame  as  you.  in  your  zeal 
for  your  friend,  suppose  her  to  be." 

"  Would  that  it  were  so.  For  two  years  she  encouraged 
Carlton's  addresses,  and  knew  that  his  every  hope  of  hap- 
piness was  bound  up  in  her.  Carl  ton  was  not  rich,  and  I 
had  my  misgivings  that  Miss  Lumley  would  not  marry 
him  ;  but  he,  poor  fellow,  was  infatuated,  and  would  not 
listen  to  a  doubt.  His  health  had  always  been  delicate, 
but  with  a  supposed  incentive  before  him,  he  allowed  him- 
self no  respite  from  exertion.  '  The  reward  will  be  so 
sweet,'  he  would  say,  '  is  it  not  worth  toiling  for  ?'  He 
was  at  last  reluctantly  compelled  to  take  some  relaxation. 
He  left  home  for  a  month,  and  returned  to  find  the  woman, 
for  whom  he  had  sacrificed  his  health,  the  wife  of  another  ! 
Having  had  no  intimation  of  the  event,  he  could  hardly  be 
made  to  believe  that  it  was  true.  Most  men  would  have 
felt  indignant,  and  looked  with  contempt  on  the  woman 
who  could  so  barter  away  her  truth,  and  in  the  engrossing 
pursuits  of  active  life,  or  in  the  joys  of  a  new  affection, 
would  have  forgotten,  or  at  least  grown  totally  indifferent 
to  the  past.  But  Carlton  was  not  one  of  these.  He  was 
shy,  sensitive,  loving  as  a  gentle  woman — and  he  never  re- 
covered from  the  shock.  Too  proud  to  complain,  he  veiled 
his  grief  under  an  assumed  appearance  of  gaiety,  and  so 
well  played  the  masker  that  even  his  friends  were  deceived. 
But  I  knew  what  was  passing  within,  and  saw  by  his  very 
recklessness  that  life  was  without  value.  In  less  than  a 
year  he  was  dying,  and  it  was  during  the  night-watches  by 
his  bed-side,  that  I  learned  to  despise  the  woman  who  had 


THE     MONEY-MAKER.  13 

caused  his  death.  But  no  good  will  come  of  it ;  no  good 
can  come  from  falsehood  and  deceit." 

"  Is  this  romantic  story  true,  Herbert  ?  A  man  dying 
from  wounded  affection  !  You  know  '  men  have  died  from 
time  to  time,  and  worms  have  eaten  them,  but  not  for  love.' 
Had  it  been  a  woman  who  thus  yielded  to  morbid  sensi- 
tiveness, it  were  not  to  be  wondered  at ;  but  a  man — the 
thing  is  too  absurd  !" 

"  Speak  not  so  lightly.  There  are  depths  in  man's  soul 
as  well  as  in  woman's,  undreamed  of,  and  unfathomed  by 
the  outer  world." 


CHAPTER  II. 

John  Mervin  was,  by  many  years,  the  younger  c  f  two 
brothers,  who  were  early  left  orphans,  with  no  inheritance 
save  the  blessing  of  their  parents,  and  the  oft-repeated  ex- 
hortation to  love  one  another. 

As  the  boys  grew  in  years,  the  elder  watched  over  the 
younger,  toiling  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  that  he  might  be 
enabled  to  defray  the  expenses  of  John's  education  at  the 
district  school. 

Jesse  Mervin  was  one  of  those  unselfish  beings  who  de- 
light in  laboring  for  those  they  love  without  exacting  aught 
in  return,  and  so  long  had  he  done  this  for  John,  that  the 
latter  had  come  to  regard  as  a  right  what  was  owing  solely 
to  his  brother's  affection.  Now,  John  was  not  really  hard- 
hearted, he  had  a  sort  of  instinctive  love  for  his  brother, 
but  he  had  a  far  greater  love  for  himself,  than  which,  no- 


14  THE     MONEY-MAKER. 

thing  could  be  more  akin  to  hard-heartedness.  He  would 
have  repelled  the  thought  that  he  might  forget,  or  wrong 
his  brother,  and  it  was  not  without  emotion  that  he  parted 
from  Jesse,  to  go  as  clerk  in  a  country  town.  Naturally 
aspiring,  he  soon  eschewed  the  counter,  left  the  country, 
and  with  his  small  stock  of  worldly  goods,  betook  him  to 
seek  his  fortune  in  the  city.  Here  he  had  the  "  good  luck," 
as  he  wrote  to  Jesse,  to  obtain  a  subordinate  situation  in 
a  broker's  office ;  and  so  well  were  his  employers  pleased 
with  his  shrewdness  and  business  capacity,  that  in  time  he 
was  made  their  confidential  clerk  One  step  more,  into 
an  office  of  his  own — and  soon  John  Mervin  was  one  of 
the  most  influential  men  on  'change. 

Some  men  seem  to  leap  over  all  obstacles,  and,  appar- 
ently without  an  effort,  place  themselves  in  situations  of 
opulence  and  trust;  while  others  spend  their  lives  in  a 
vain  endeavor  to  gain  a  modest  competence,  and  die,  leav- 
ing their  object  unattained. 

We  will  not  pause  here  to  inquire  what  opposite  causes 
produce  such  widely  different  results,  or  how  it  is  that  some 
men  so  suddenly  amass  large  fortunes.  Much  might  be 
said  about  energy  and  perseverance  on  the  one  hand,  and 
the  want  of  those  qualities  on  the  other ;  but,  generally 
speaking,  the  secret  lies  in  what  is  called  "  a  lucky  specu- 
lation," for  which  the  shrewd,  worldly-minded  money- 
maker is  always  on  the  alert ;  while  the  more  conscientious 
man  of  business  will  not  take  advantage  of  either  the  ig- 
norance or  the  wants  of  his  fellows.  We  are  not  here 
speaking  of  wealth  acquired  by  long  years  of  patient  de- 
votion to  the  counter  or  the  desk,  but  of  those  sudden 
turns  in  the  wheel  of  fortune  which  place  the  un moneyed 
man  of  yesterday  among  the  milionaires  of  to  day. 


THE     MONEY-MAKER.  15 

Round  the  heart  of  the  successful  broker  prosperity 
had  wound  a  golden  coil  which  avarice  was  daily  tighten- 
ing, and  to  him  the  divine  precept,  "  Do  unto  others  as  ye 
would  they  should  do  unto  you,"  was  fast  becoming  a  dead 
letter.  Becoming,  did  we  say  ?  it  had  already  become  so  ! 
If  he  bought  stocks  at  ruinous  prices  because  the  holders 
were  pressed  for  money  and  must  sell,  who  could  blame 
him,  when  he  paid  the  current  value  ?  If,  at  a  time  when 
thousands  were  dying  with  hunger,  he  speculated  in  the 
misery  of  his  fellows,  and  filled  his  coffers  with  the  price 
of  tears  and  of  blood,  who  could  blame  him  for  selling  a 
marketable  commodity  to  the  highest  bidder  ?  If  he  fore- 
closed a  poor  man's  mortgage  at  the  very  hour  when  it  was 
due,  leaving  him  homeless  and  penniless,  with  no  alterna- 
tive save  starvation  or  the  alms-house,  who  could  blame 
him,  when  it  was  "  so  nominated  in  the  bond"  ?  And  thus 
he  went  on,  adding  thousand  to  thousand,  and  forgetting 
that  riches  can  take  unto  themselves  wings  and  flee 
away. 

Did  John  Mervin  ever  think  of  his  brother  ?  Did  he 
remember  the  warm-hearted  Jesse,  to  whom  he  owed  that 
education  which  had  been  the  foundation  of  his  fortune  ? 
He  had  done  so,  he  had  thought  of  him  and  remembered 
him,  and  had  written  to  him,  but  it  was  long  ago,  years 
had  passed  since  then,  and  the  coil  had  been  tightened  till 
there  was  no  room  left  in  his  heart  save  for  the  love  of 
Mammon. 

At  the  age  of  five-and-forty,  John  Mervin  was  still  un- 
married. Plain  in  personal  appearance,  devoid  of  intel- 
lectual culture,  and  lacking  in  gentlemanly  ease  and  polish 
of  manner,  some  over-refined  individuals  regarded  him  as 
a  rather  unlucky  candidate  for  the  favors  of  Hymen ;  but 


16  THE     MONEY-MAKER. 

all  defects  were  hidden  by  a  money-laden  cloud — and  a 
woman  broke  her  truth  to  catch  the  golden  shower  ! 

The  broker's  marriage  was  but  a  nine-days  wonder,  but 
not  so  the  change  in  his  style  of  living.  No  more  costly 
building  than  Mr.  Mervin's  reared  its  handsome  front  in 
the  avenue  chosen  by  wealth  and  fashion  for  their  proud 
display ;  no  more  sumptuous  furniture  than  that  imported 
by  Mr.  Mervin  could  be  found  within  republican  walls ; 
no  carriage  more  elegant  in  its  appointments  than  Mr. 
Mervin's,  could  be  pointed  out  on  the  fashionable  drive  ;  and 
no  wife  more  superbly  dressed  than  Mr.  Mervin's,  could  be 
seen  among  the  aristocracy  of  wealth.  It  was  computed 
that  Mervin  lived  at  the  rate  of  twenty  or  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars  a  year.  And  all  this  vast  outlay  was 
warranted  by  his  income — so  thought  the  world — so,  per- 
haps, thought  Mervin  himself! 

Sunk  in  the  richly-brocaded  cushions  of  a  rose-wood 
fautiieil,  Mrs.  Mervin  was  glancing  at  some  unpaid  bills, 
which  the  servant  had  laid  on  the  table.  One  was  for  a 
tapestry  carpet  in  the  dining-room,  another  for  a  dessert 
service  of  Bohemian  glass,  and  a  third  for  an  ermined 
opera  cloak.  While  she  was  thus  engaged,  her  husband  en- 
tered the  room.  She  carelessly  tossed  the  papers  toward 
him,  and  without  any  other  indication  that  she  recognized 
his  presence,  turned  to  the  book  she  had  been  reading. 

Mervin  felt  the  insolence  of  her  manner,  and  his  'iheek 
flushed,  as  he  said  :  "  When  must  these  be  paid  ?"  With- 
out raising  her  ejes  from  the  page,  she  briefly  replied,  "  To- 
morrow." 

He  ventured  to  remonstrate ;  "  A  new  carpet  was  not 
wanting  in  the  dining-room ;  and  this  cloak,  too,  why  the 
last  one  you  ordered  has  been  worn  but  twice." 


THE     MONEY-MAKER.  17 

Now  she  raised  her  head,  and  with  a  cool,  contemptuous 
look,  which  seemed  to  ask,  ;'  for  what  did  I  marry  you  ?" 
she  said,  "  I  want  the  money  to-morrow,  sir." 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  Mervin  thrust  the  bills 
into  his  pocket,  ate  his  dinner  in  silence,  dressed  his  face 
in  smiles,  and  accompanied  his  wife  to  the  opera.  The 
next  day  the  lady  was  bowed  into  her  carriage  by  the  ob- 
sequious shop-keepers,  who  secretly  laughed  at  the  extrav- 
agance of  their  customer. 


CHAPTBK  IIL 

IT  is  refreshing  to  turn  from  the  petty  strifes  and  envy- 
ings  of  vulgar  souls,  the  jealous  rivalries  for  the  possess- 
ion of  things,  beautiful  in  themselves,  but  unworthy  the 
all-absorbing  pursuit  of  immortal  minds — it  is  refreshing 
to  turn  from  the  passion  for  show,  the  thirst  for  pleasure, 
the  jostling  for  place  and  power,  the  making  haste  to  be 
rich,  which  turn  the  city  into  one  great  Babel ;  it  is  re- 
freshing to  turn  from  these  to  the  simplo,  unambitious 
homes,  the  loving  hearts  and  contented  minds,  which  are 
to  be  found  pursuing  the  even  tenor  of  their  way,  in  green 
fields  and  beside  clear  waters. 

Not  but  the  country  has  its  temptations  as  well  as  the 
city — for  sin  is  everywhere  ;  but  the  allurements  to  evil 
are  fewer,  the  incentives  to  guilt  are  not  so  strong.  Na- 
ture, in  her  holy  temple,  is  ever  teaching  lessons  of  the 
wisdom  and  goodness  of  God.  The  sunshine,  as  it  ripens 
the  golden  grain,  the  shower,  as  it  falls  upon  the  parched 


18  THE     MONEY-MAKER. 

earth,  the  green  blade  of  grass  as  it  springs  from  the  lowly 
ground,  the  luscious  fruit  hanging  from  the  laden  bough,  and 
the  blue  heaven  smiling  upon  all,  these  daily  lead  the  heart 
to  One  who  maketh  the  outgoings  of  the  morning  and  the 
evening  to  praise  him. 

Spring  has  been  coy  and  coquetish  this  year,  now  laugh- 
ing from  the  hedges  and  luring  you  with  violets,  and  again 
scattering  the  blossoms  and  frowning  you  away.  But  her 
reign  is  nearly  over ;  as  if  to  show  her  wealth  of  beauty, 
and  make  you  regret  her  going,  she  is  showering  on  every 
side  her  treasures  with  a  lavish  hand. 

Crocus  and  cowslip,  daffodil  and  daisy,  hyacinth  and 
narcissus,  how  she  delights  in  flinging  them  abroad !  She 
has  brushed  her  robe  against  the  tulip-chalice,  and  bright- 
ened it  with  every  rainbow  dye.  She  has  perfumed  the 
honey  suckle -bells,  and  sent  the  tiny  humming-bird  to  quaff 
the  nectar  of  her  breath.  Let  us  follow  her  footsteps  down 
this  narrow  lane  where  the  air  is  scented  with  hawthorn 
blossoms,  and  the  tender-foliaged  trees  are  whispering  the 
birds  to  nestle  in  their  boughs. 

Under  the  low  projecting  eaves  of  an  old  farm-house 
are  seated  a  man  of  middle  age  and  his  son.  Two  children 
are  playing  on  the  door-step,  and  in  the  little  kitchen  a 
young  girl  is  preparing  the  evening  meal.  Let  us  enter. 
There  is  no  tapestry,  no  rosewood,  no  damask,  to  be  seen 
in  the  small  parlor.  The  floor  is  covered  with  striped, 
country-made  carpet;  the  straight-backed  chairs  are  un- 
cushioned,  and  the  small  windows  are  half  shaded  with 
muslin  curtains ;  but  it  is  scrupulously  clean  and  neat,  and 
flowers  and  books  remove  all  appearance  of  poverty  from 
the  homely  room. 

We  cannot  imagine  why  some  people  take  such  pains  to 


THE     MONEY-MAKER.  19 

make  their  apartments  so  formal  and  uninviting,  with  not 
a  book,  not  a  flower,  nothing  on  which  the  eye  can  rest 
with  pleasure.  The  chairs  look  as  if  they  had  been  drilled 
to  stand  sentinel-like  against  the  walls,  the  tops  of  the 
marble  tables  gleam  cold  and  chilling  as  monumental  slabs  ; 
and  while  waiting  the  appearance  of  some  lady,  who  is 
lazily  unpapering  her  curls,  we  feel  half  inclined  to  rise 
and  read  the  epitaphs  upon  the  tombs. 

There  is  no  costly  china,  no  massive  plate ;  but  there 
are  grateful  hearts,  and  there  is  an  invoked  blessing,  as 
the  brother  of  John  Mervin  sits  down  with  his  family  at 
the  frugal  board. 

Jesse  Mervin  had  but  once  seen  his  brother  since  the 
day  when,  half  blinded  with  tears,  he  had  looked  after  him 
while  leaving  home.  Then  he  had  gone  to  deposit  with 
the  man  of  easily-acquired  wealth,  his  own  hard  earnings, 
that  they  might  be  invested  in  some  secure  manner,  and 
reserved  either  as  a  provision  for  his  old  age,  or  held  in 
trust  for  his  children,  if  he  were  gone.  He  had  told  John 
of  the  great  sorrow  which  had  befallen  him,  how  he  had 
lost  the  partner  who  for  many  years  had  been  to  him  as 
another  self.  He  dwelt  on  her  virtues,  her  judicious  affec- 
tion as  a  mother,  her  meek  and  loving  deportment  as  a 
wife,  and  he  wept  as  he  spoke  of  his  children,  and  of  the 
delicate  infant  left  without  maternal  care.  Jesse's  head, 
while  speaking,  was  bent  upon  his  hands,  and  when  he 
looked  up  for  an  answering  glance  of  sympathy  from  his 
brother,  when  he  listened  to  hear  one  kind,  consoling 
word,  John's  cold  gray  eye  was  fastened  on  the  balance- 
sheet  of  an  account,  and  his  thin  lips  were  fixed  in  rigid 
silence.  Jesse's  heart  grew  cold  within  him,  he  felt  as  if 
under  the  roof  of  a  stranger,  and  rose  to  go.  Did  he  see 


20  THE     MONEY-MAKER. 

a  relaxing  of  the  rich  man's  chilling  indifference  that  he 
lingered  on  the  threshold,  and  longed  to  press  him  to  his 
heart  ?  It  was  a  false  hope.  A  formal  shake  of  the 
hand,  a  cold  good-by — and  this  was  all !  and  brother  part- 
ed from  brother,  not  knowing  whether  they  should  look 
on  each  other  again. 

The  long  deposited  money  was  now  the  subject  of  con- 
versation between  Jesse  Mervin  and  his  children.  For 
the  last  two  or  three  years  his  affairs  had  been  far  from 
prosperous.  The  failure  of  crops,  and  the  loss  of  some  of 
his  best  cattle,  had  greatly  decreased  his  means ;  indeed, 
he  found  himself  so  straitened,  that  it  was  necessary  to 
use  part  of  the  sum  which  had  been  placed  in  the  hands  of 
his  brother,  to  whom  he  had  already  written  on  the  subject. 

"  If  we  do  not  soon  get  a  letter,  father,  I  think  it  will 
be  better  for  me  to  go  to  New  York.  I  will  bring  the 
money  more  safely  than  it  could  be  remitted;  and  I  should 
like  to  see  this  rich  uncle  of  mine — who  knows  but  he 
might  take  a  fancy  to  me,  and  "help  to  make  my  fortune." 

Although  Jesse  Mervin  had  been  deeply  wounded  by 
the  conduct  of  his  brother,  yet  he  never  mentioned  him 
unkindly,  and  wished  his  children  to  regard  their  uncle 
with  respect.  He  was,  therefore,  averse  to  his  son's  pro- 
posed visit,  for  he  knew  the  haughty  spirit  of  the  nephew, 
bound  by  no  tie  save  that  of  consanguinity,  would  not 
brook  the  cold  looks  and  repulsive  manner  which  had  been 
meekly  borne  by  the  brother,  softened  as  he  was  by  sor- 
row, and  still  remembering  the  loving  intercourse  of  early 
years. 

"  It  will  be  well  to  wait,  my  son,  until  we  hear  from 
your  uncle ;  and  as  I  cannot  this  year  afford  to  hire  help, 
it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  spare  you  before  fall.'' 


THE    MONEY-MAKER.  21 

"  Oh  don't  think  of  going,  Archie,"  said  his  sister,  who 
placed  less  value  on  money  than  on  the  companionship  of 
her  brother,  "  we  could  never  do  without  you.  And  what 
if.  after  you  had  set  out  on  your  journey,  a  letter  should 
arrive  from  my  uncle  ?" 

"  There  is  little  fear  of  that,  Lucy.  Men  who,  like  my 
uncle,  have  thousands  passing  through  their  hands  daily, 
seldom  think  of  the  small  amounts  that  are  deposited  with 
them.  Sometimes  when  a  stray  bill  on  the  bank  for 
which  he  some  years  ago  obtained  a  charter,  finds  its  way 
out  here,  I  think  a  few  hundreds  might  be  directed  to  us, 
and  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  go  at  once  and  demand  them. 
Would  it  not  be  better  for  me  to  do  so,  father?" 

"  I  have  already  said  that  I  cannot  well  do  without  you, 
my  son.  But  if  we  are  spared  until  next  fall,  you  may 
go,  provided  we  do  not  in  the  meantime  receive  a  remit- 
tance from  your  uncle." 

Although  Archie  longed  to  explore  the  El  Dorado  which 
he  supposed  was  to  be  found  in  New  York,  somewhere  in 
the  vicinity  of  Wall  street,  yet  having  been  brought  up  in 
dutiful  submission  to  parental  authority,  he  quietly  yielded 
to  his  father's  wishes. 

Summer  came  and  went  without  bringing  the  long  look- 
ed for  letter.  A  heavy  sickness  had  prostrated  Archie's 
strength,  and  in  his  anxiety  for  his  boy,  Jesse  Mervin  had 
neglected  the  culture  of  his  land.  Autumn  found  them 
bearing  with  many  privations,  and  their  only  hope  for  the 
coming  winter  was  in  obtaining  some  of  the  money  in  the 
hands  of  John  Mervin.  With  Archie's  illness  came  de- 
spondency and  gloom  in  the  heart  of  his  father,  and  even 
Archie  himself  lost  all  buoyancy  of  spirit. 

How  much  sooner  does  man  sink  under  the  burden  of 


22  THE     MONEY-MAKER. 

harassing  cares,  than  woman.  The  petty  trials  of  domes- 
tic life  which  she  daily  endures  without  complaint,  would 
irritate  and  disgust  him.  The  sickness  which  will  make 
a  man  fretful  as  a  spoiled  child,  a  woman  patiently  bears 
without  a  murmur.  It  is  at  times  like  these,  when  woman 
soothes  the  chafed  spirit,  and  lightens  man's  daily  cares, 
when  in  sickness  she  watches  his  every  look,  and  ministers 
to  him  with  an  unwearying  love,  it  is  at  times  like  these, 
and  in  the  doing  such  holy  and  gentle  deeds,  that  woman 
performs  her  true  mission. 

"  Happy — happier  far  than  thou, 
"With  the  laurel  on  thy  brow, 
She  that  makes  the  humblest  hearth 
Lovely  but  to  one  on  earth." 

But  for  the  firmness,  hopefulness,  and  ever-watchful 
solicitude  of  Lucy  Mervin,  her  father  would  have  sunk 
beneath  the  burden  of  his  grief.  To  Lucy's  patient,  de- 
voted attentions,  under  Providence,  did  her  brother  owe 
his  life.  One  would  scarcely  believe  that  a  young  female 
of  slight  form,  and  delicate  constitution,  could  endure  so 
much  mental  anxiety  and  bodily  fatigue. 

But  Lucy  never  allowed  duties  to  remain  unfulfilled,  no 
matter  how  wearisome  or  distasteful  they  might  be  ;  and 
now  when  her  whole  heart  was  engaged  in  the  work,  what 
wonder  if  she  accomplished  seeming  impossibilities  ?  Her 
brother  never  missed  her  from  his  side.  Whenever  he 
awoke  out  of  sleep,  there  stood  his  watchful  sister  ready , 
to  administer  to  his  wants.  Her  father  wondered  if  she 
ever  slept,  and  feared  lest  her  health  should  give  way ;  but 
he  was  always  answered  by  a  bright  smile  and  an  assur- 
ance that  she  could  do  more  if  necessary. 


THE     MONET-MAKER.  23 

And  yet  Lucy  had  her  moments  of  weariness  and  de- 
pression. They  came  in  the  still  and  solemn  night,  when 
all  but  herself  were  wrapped  in  slumber.  Then  came  the 
thought  of  her  father's  increasing  infirmities,  of  the  help- 
lessness of  the  little  ones,  of  her  brother's  sickness,  and 
perhaps — his  death  !  Then  came  the  blinding  tears,  and 
the  stifled  sobs,  the  heart-ache  and  the  grief.  But  the  frail 
girl  knew  that  the  "  Lord  loveth  whom  he  chasteneth ;" 
she  had  learned  in  all  her  troubles  to  call  upon  Him,  and 
in  the  lonely  watches  of  the  night  she  drew  nigh  to  Him 
in  prayer,  and  arose  from  those  holy  communings  with  re- 
newed trust  and  strength. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

BETWEEN  Mrs.  Mervin  and  another  leader  of  a  fashion- 
able coterie,  had  sprung  up  a  ridiculous  rivalry,  each  try- 
ing to  outdo  the  other  in  the  brilliancy  of  her  entertain- 
ments and  the  costliness  of  her  attire. 

It  was  because  Mrs.  Latimer  had  worn  a  cloak  some- 
thing like  hers,  that  Mrs.  Mervin  purchased  one  of  an 
entirely  different  pattern ;  because  Mrs.  Latimer's  dining- 
room  was  carpeted  with  Brussels,  Mrs.  Mervin  had  hers 
removed,  and  tapestry  substituted  in  its  stead;  because 
Mrs.  Latimer's  dessert-service  was  of  china,  Mrs.  Mervin 
would  have  hers  of  ruby-colored  and  gold  Bohemian  glass. 
Mrs.  Latimer  has  worn  a  beautiful  evening-dress,  and  Mra 
Mervin  hastens  to  purchase  one  far  more  beautiful. 

"  Three  hundred,  I  think  you  said  for  this  ?" 


24  THE      MONEY-MAKER 

"  Yes,  madara,  it  is  the  richest  lace  dress  we  have  in 
the  store.  Here  is  one  at  two  hundred,  a  beautiful  arti- 
cle certainly,  but  not  to  be  compared  to  the  other.  Mrs. 
Latimer  took  one  like  this  last  week,  she  thought  three 
hundred  too  much;  but  there  is  not  another  like  that  you 
are  looking  at  in  the  city.  Just  look  at  these  flowers  how 
exquisitely  they  are  wrought !  worn  over  a  robe  of  pale 
rose-color  this  dress  would  be  perfection  itself." 

"  Is  this  the  only  one  of  the  kind  that  you  have  ?" 

"  The  only  one,  for  we  do  not  often  import  them.  Let 
me  put  it  over  this  pink  poult-de-soic — could  anything 
be  more  charming?  I  was  saying  to  Mr.  Brown,  my 
partner,  that  this  dress  would  exactly  suit  the  fine  taste 
of  Mrs.  Mervin,  and  if  you  had  not  called  here  to-day, 
I  should  have  sent  it  for  you  to  look  at." 

"  You  may  put  it  up  for  me." 

"Anything  else  this  morning,  madam? — laces? — em- 
broideries ? — we  have  received  some  beautiful  capes  by  the 
last  arrival,  which  we  will  sell  for  one  half  less  than  they  could 
be  purchased  for  last  fall.  Here  is  an  article  worth  twen- 
ty dollars,  and  we  offer  it  at  twelve ;  it  is  a  great  sacrifice, 
but  several  large  manufacturing  houses  in  Paris  are  in 
want  of  funds,  and  write  us  that  we  may  have  goods  at 
our  own  prices." 

A  few  laces,  a  few  embroideries,  rose-colored  silk  for 
the  robe,  a  couple  of  dresses  which  she  might  want,  a  new 
opera-hood,  a  dozen  pair  of  gloves  were  selected,  and  Mrs. 
Mervin  left  a  debt  of  four  hundred  dollars,  lacking  fifty 
cents,  to  be  added  to  her  account.  Six  hundred  dollars, 
minus  the  aforesaid  fifty  cents,  had  been  spent  for  dress  in 
one  week.  "  Six  hundred  dollars  !"  exclaims  some  pains- 
taking, thrifty  housewife,  "  six  hundred  dollars  !  impossi- 


THE   MONEY-MAKER.  25 

ble  !  Why  that  is  all  we  have  to  live  on  during  a  whole 
year  !"  That  may  be,  my  good  dame  ;  there  are  many, 
let  me  tell  you,  who  live  on  less,  arid  thankfully  too.  But 
you  forget  that  Mrs.  Mervin  is  a  money-maker's  wife  !  A 
leader  in  the  world  of  fashion  ! 

Saratoga  had  murmured  sotto  voce  of  the  airs  of  Mrs. 
Mervin.  Newport  had  spoken  loudly  of  the  exclusiveness 
of  Mrs.  Mervin,  and  she  had  returned  from  both  with 
greater  ideas  of  her  own  importance,  and  a  determination 
to  make  her  winter  reunions  the  most  brilliant  of  the  sea- 
son. Pier  husband,  if  he  sometimes  had  the  wish,  had  not 
the  power  to  oppose  her,  and  king  though  he  might  be  in 
the  realm  of  notes  and  discounts,  at  home  he  was  a  slave. 

"  On  what  day  does  Mrs.  Mervin  receive  calls?"  said 
pretty  Mrs.  Brunton,  in  one  of  her  prettiest  lisps,  as  she 
trifled  with  the  bijouterie  in  Mrs.  Latimer's  boudoir. 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  dear,"  answered  the  stately  Mrs. 
Latimer,  with  a  look  of  ineffable  disdain.  "  You  are 
aware,  I  suppose,  that  though  neighbors,  Mrs.  Merviu  and 
niyself  are  not  on  visiting  terms." 

"  Ciell  how  stupid  I  am,  I  knew  it  to  be  sure,  but  ha 
forgotten  all  about  it      But  tell  me,  cliere  amie,  how  th 
happens  ?     Mrs.  Merviu's  style  and  costume  are  faultless. 
n'esf  ce  pas  .?" 

"  They  are  well  enough — but  her  manner  is  wanting  i 
the  repose  of  a  high-bred  woman." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Dauforth  told  me,  on  seeing  Mrs. 
Mervin  after  his  return  from  abroad,  that  she  would  grace 
the  polished  circles  of  Europe." 

"  He  must  have  been  jesting.     Dauforth,  who  belongs 
to  on-"1-  of  our  oldest  families,  couid  not   uavo  said  this  iu 
of  a  purge-proud  parv&nue?'* 
2 


26  THE     MONEY-MAKER. 

Mrs.  Brunton  winced,  for  her  own  importance  wa:< 
owing  to  her  husband's  wealth ;  but  taking  no  notice  of  the 
unlady-like  sneer,  she  continued  speaking  of  Mrs.  Mervin. 

"  Her  house,"  everything  be  it  remarked  was  tiers,  not 
his,  or  theirs,  "  her  house  has  been  altered  during  the 
summer,  and  a  conservatory  added  to  it,  in  the  middle  of 
which  is  a  beautiful  fountain." 

"  And  in  the  middle  of  the  beautiful  fountain,  I  suppose, 
stauds  the  beautiful  Hebe  filtering  the  Croton  !  This  note- 
shaving  must  be  a  profitable  business,  when  Mr.  Mervin 
can  allow  his  wife  to  squander  so  much  money  in  making 
herself  ridiculous." 

Softly,  softly,  Mrs.  Latimer,  you  at  least  think  yourself 
a  lady,  let  not  your  words  contradict  your  thought. 

Had  anybody  else  built  half  a  dozen  conservatories, 
with  a  fountain  and  a  nymph  in  each,  Mrs.  Latimer  would 
not  have  faulted  them  for  so  doing ;  but  of  Mrs.  Mervin 
she  was  both  jealous  and  envious,  and  these  hateful  pas- 
sions embittered  her  against  the.  infatuated  woman,  whose 
,'areer  should  have  been  cause  for  pity  as  well  as  blame. 

While  Mrs.  Mervin's  extravagance  and  passion  for  dis- 
play were  freely  commented  on,  she  remained  in  blissful 
ignorance  of  all  ill-natured  remarks.  Courted  for  her 
wealth,  and  accustomed  to  have  her  house,  her  equipage, 
\er  dress,  never  mentioned  but  with  the  superlatives  of 
praise,  she  only  lived  for  the  gratification  of  every  wish 
tvhich  selfishness,  ambition,  or  vanity  dictated.  Wretched 
misuse  of  the  gifts  of  a  good  God.  More  than  wretched 
trifling  with  the  welfare  of  an  immortal  soul ! 

It  was  rumored  that  preparations  were  makirg  for  an 
evening  party  at  Mrs.  Mervin's,  and  great  was  the  flutter 
of  excitement  to  know  who  would  be  the  favored  guests. 


THE      MONEY-MAKER.  27 

Three  weeks  before  the  event  conjecture  was  at  an  end,  for 
invitations  were  then  sent  to  all  who,  either  in  point  of 
wealth  or  fashion,  were  thought  worthy  the  honor. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  the  whole  thing  will  be  a  failure," 
said  Mrs.  Latimer  to  one  of  the  non-admitted.  •'  How  pre- 
posterous for  such  a  woman  to  attempt  anything  of  the 
kind !" 

"  Mrs.  Tomkins  tells  me,  my  dear,  that  there  is  no  end 
to  the  extravagance  that  is  going  on.  Porters  are  con- 
stantly running  to  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Tomkins  wonders 
how  they  will  dispose  of  all  the  parcels  and  packages  that 
are  left  there." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  will  be  overdone  ;  it  will  be  vulgar.  The 
woman  has  so  little  taste,  don't  you  think  so,  Mrs. 
Lynde  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  do,  my  dear ;  what  can  you  look  for  from 
such  people  ?  Knowing  that  they  have  nothing  but  their 
wealth  on  which  to  pride  themselves,  they  make  a  most  of- 
fensive display  of  it  on  all  occasions.  Yes,  the  thing,  as 
you  say,  will  be  vulgar,  a  complete  failure." 

But  the  thing  was  neither  vulgar  nor  a  failure.  Heart- 
less and  ambitious,  Mrs.  Mervin  was  yet  a  woman  of  ex- 
quisite taste,  and  the  beautiful  arrangement  of  her  rooms, 
the  rare  and  exquisite  plants  in  her  conservatory,  the  fra- 
grant flowers  filling  every  recess  and  lading  the  air  with 
perfume,  the  music  which  "  rose  with  its  voluptuous  swell," 
and  the  delicate  and  dainty  viands  worthy  the  banquet  of 
a  Lucullus,  these  made  Mrs.  Mervin's  reunion  the  most 
brilliant  of  the  season. 


THE     MONEY-MAKSK. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN  the  innermost  sanctum  of  his  place  of  business  sat 
John  Mevvin.  His  thin  lips  were  rigidly  compressed,  his 
face  was  pale  and  haggard,  and  his  frame  bowed  with  weari- 
ness. He  had  been  there  the  whole  night,  alone,  and  while 
darkness  was  yet  struggling  with  daylight,  he  stole  noise- 
lessly out,  locking  the  door  behind  him,  and  leaving  no 
trace  of  his  vigil.  The  next  night,  and  the  next  was  the 
same.  With  a  dim  light  so  placed  that  no  reflection  could 
fall  but  on  the  folio  before  him,  with  a  stealthy  tread,  as 
if  fearful  that  the  <;  very  stones  would  prate  of  his  where- 
about," with  a  knitted  brow  and  a  muttered  imprecation, 
the  man  of  wealth  was  looking  back  into  the  past.  What 
saw  he  there  ?  Impoverished  men  whose  ruin  he  had  hast- 
ened— gaunt  and  hunger  smitten  creatures  in  whose  misery 
he  had  speculated — families  without  the  homes  of  whose 
shelter  he  had  robbed  them.  What  more  ?  A  brother 
who  had  lain  upon  his  mother's  breast,  been  kissed  by  Ids 
mother's  lips,  cradled  in  Ids  mother's  arms — a  brother— 
his  brother  crushed  with  poverty,  failing  in  strength, 
watching  by  the  sick  bed  of  an  only  son,  and  vainly  asking 
for  relief  !  Not  a  generous  thought,  not  a  good  deed,  on 
which  the  mind  could  linger.  Self,  self,  before  all,  and 
above  all,  forever,  self! 

It  was  after  a  night  so  spent,  when  at  the  regular  busi- 
ness hour  he  had  returned  to  his  office,  that  a  plain,  decent- 
looking  man,  inquired  of  one  of  the  clerks  if  he  could  sec 
Mr.  Merviu? 

"  Cannot  I  transact  your  business,  air  ?'' 


THE     MONEY-MAKER.  29 

"  I  prefer  seeing  Mr.  Mervin  to  day." 

(i  You  will  find  him  in  the  inner  office,  step  this  way." 

The  man  approached  the  door,  and  knocked  timidly  as 
if  awed  at  his  own  temerity. 

"  Come  in,"  was  called  from  the  inside,  and  the  man  en- 
tered, bowing  low  to  the  sole  occupant  of  the  room. 

;t  How  are  you,  Mr.  Croome  ?  how  are  you?  I'm  very 
glad  to  see  you — take  a  seat,  take  a  seat,  sir." 

All  this  was  said  so  blandly,  that  the  man  seemed  wholly 
taken  by  surprise,  and  faltered  in  his  purpose. 

"  A  fine  morning,  sir,"  said  Mervin,  looking  obliquely  at 
his  visitor. 

"  Yes  sir,  very  fine."  A  pause  ensued,  and  Mervin  be- 
gan to  grow  restless. 

'"  I  hope  Mrs.  Croome  and  the  family  are  well."  Mer- 
vin did  not  know  whether  the  man  had  a  family  or  not.  but 
he  hazarded  the  wish  rather  than  remain  silent. 

"  Pretty  well,  thank  you.  Mrs.  Croome  has  been  ailing 
a  little,  but  she  is  coming  around  again." 

Another  pause  ensued,  and  Mervin  showed  signs  of  im- 
patience by  looking  at  the  clock,  and  taking  up  the  pen, 
which  he  had  put  down  on  Croome's  entrance. 

"  I  came  to  see  you  on  particular  business,  this  morning, 
Mr.  Merviu."  Croome  spoke  low,  and  looked  around  as 
if  fearful  of  being  overheard.  "  I  have  heard  rumors — " 

"  Rumors !  of  what  kind,  sir  ?"  said  Mervin,  startled 
from  his  self-possession.  Again  the  man  hesitated. 

"  Speak,  sir,  what  are  the  rumors  J^M  have  heard?  or 
rather,  why  do  you  come  to  me  with  them  ?" 

•'  Because  they  concern  you.  sir." 

"  Me  !  how  ?  in  what  way?     Let  me  understand  you." 

"  The  say  you  are  involved,  sir." 


SO  THE     MONEY-MAKER. 

"  They  say,  who  are  they,  that  know  so  much  about  my 
business  ?  My  dear  sir,  somebody  has  been  jesting  with 
you." 

"  Well,  I  hope  it  is  so,  for  you  know,  Mr.  Mervin,  that 
all  I  am  worth  in  the  world  is  in  your  hands." 

"  And  it  is  perfectly  safe,  I  assure  you.  If  you  have 
any  doubts  upon  the  subject  you  can  immediately  draw  the 
amount.  The  sum  is  small,  shall  I  give  you  a  check  sir  ?" 
Mervin  eyed  the  man  keenly,  he  saw  that  he  was  beginning 
to  hesitate,  and  he  knew  that  by  urging  him  on  to  draw 
the  money  he  would  deter  him  from  his  purpose. 

"  There  is  not  much  credited  to  your  account,  I  believe, 
but" — and  here  Mervin  smiled  significantly — "  if  there 
is  any  place  in  which  you  think  it  would  be  safer  than  with 
me,  take  it  by  all  means." 

By  this  time  Croome  had  become  ashamed  of  his  sus- 
picions, and  attempted  an  apology  for  what  he  had  said. 

"  Don't  apologize,  Mr.  Croome,  don't  apologize,  sir;  it 
is  perfectly  right  that  you  should  wish  to  place  your  money 
in  good  hands,  and  as  I  have  told  you,  it  may  be  drawn 
immediately." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  thank  you ;  I  am  sure  it  is  safe  with 
you,  and  if  you  will  be  troubled  with  it,  Mr.  Mervin,  I 
have  another  small  sum  here  which  my  brother  wished  me 
to  deposit  in  safe  hands." 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  not  leave  it,  Mr.  Croome, 
some  safer  house  will  take  it  for  you." 

Mervin  spoke  facetiously,  and  Croome,  after  again  apolo- 
gizing for  his  suspicions,  left  his  brother's  money  in  safe 
keeping  with  his  own. 

On  speeds  the  flight  of  time.  Mr.  Mervin  no  longer 
holds  nightly  vigils  at  his  lonely  desk.  Suspicion  breathes 


THE     MOXEY-MAKER.  31 

no  whisper  against  the  stability  of  his  fortunes.  Mr.  Mer- 
viu  is  an  envied  man.  Mrs.  Mervin  queens  it  proudly  in 
the  charmed  circle  of  which  she  has  become  the  centre, 
and  no  courtiers  more  blindly  follow  the  fashions  set 
by  the  reigning  monarch  than  does  Mrs.  Mervin's  coterie 
follow  hers. 

The  revellers  who  had  drank  so  eagerly  of  the  cup  of 
pleasure,  were  becoming  satiated  with  the  draught.  Belles 
of  the  last  season,  who  still  dazzled  amid  a  blaze  of  jewels 
and  gas,  were  envying  belles  of  the  present  who  could  per- 
mit the  daylight  to  look  upon  their  charms.  Lassitude 
and  ennui  were  creeping  over  those  who  had  been  gayest 
in  the  giddy  throng.  Once  more  are  they  aroused.  Mrs. 
Mervin,  as  she  had  opened,  so  she  resolved  to  close  the 
season  with  another  brilliant  fete.  Again  were  conject\ire 
and  gossip  at  their  envious  work. 

"  I  hear  that  Mrs.  Mervin  is  having  one  of  her  suite  of 
rooms  tastefully  decorated  with  panels  and  draperies,  which 
produce  quite  an  artistic  effect,  and  that  tableux-vivants, 
and  acted  charades,  are  to  be  among  the  entertainments  of 
the  evening.  How  preposterous  !  Is  it  not,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Latimer  ?" 

"  There  is  nothing  too  absurd  for  Mrs.  Mervin.  I  heard 
it  was  the  Masque  of  Comus,  with  which  she  meant  to  as- 
tonish her  guests,  and  that  several  of  her  satellites  had 
been  singing  and  rehearsing  for  a  month  past." 

'•  Is  it  possible  !  well,  after  that  she  may  attempt  any- 
thing. Bat  do  you  think  it  is  true  ?' 

''•  Really,  I  cannot  tell,  that  is  what  I  heard.  Is  it  not 
too  ridiculous  to  think  of  Mrs.  Mervin  setting  about  to  re- 
vive a  court  pageant.  I  wonder  you  heard  nothing  about 
it,  Mrs.  Lynde." 


32  THE     MONEY-MAKER. 

"  1  wonder,  too,  my  dear,  for  it  was  Mrs.  Brunton  who 
told  me  about  the  tableaux  and  the  charades,  and  she  gen- 
erally knows  all  about  Mrs.  Mervin's  movements." 

Clear  and  cloudless  rose  the  morning  sun,  and  busy  were 
the  preparations  for  the  evening  festival.  There  was  no 
hand-writing  on  the  wall,  but  all  day  through  the  heart  of 
the  great  city,  beat  a  low  note  of  alarm.  Rumor  came 
flying  on  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  and  some  men  openly 
wondered,  while  others  shook  their  heads  in  silence. 

A  man,  travel-soiled  and  weary,  asked  a  question  of  an- 
other who  was  hurrying  by. 

"I  am  going  there  now,"  was  the  answer;  '"has  he 
robbed  you,  too  ?  Curses  on  his  smooth  tongue  and  hypo- 
critical face !" 

The  wayfarer  stopped  and  looked  at  his  strange  com- 
panion. 

"  Sir,  here  is  some  mistake;  it  is  Mr.  Mervin,  Mr.  John 
Mervin  that  I  am  looking  for." 

'  Ay,  ay,  John  Mervin,  who  took  men's  money  at  a  time 
when  he  must  have  known  it  would  never  be  repaid.  John 
Mervin,  who  with  his  cursed  speculations  has  ruined  many 
an  honest  man.  Why,  sir,  it  is  but  a  short  time  since  I 
deposited  with  him  all  that  my  brother  had  saved  in  twelve 
years!  and  he  had  my  own  earnings  too — I  trusted  him 
with  all !  And  here  has  this  man  been  living  like  a  prince, 
and  his  wife  indulging  in  all  sorts  of  extravagancies,  turn- 
ing up  her  nose  at  decent  women  like  Mrs.  Croome,  who 
helped  her  husband  save  the  money  that  John  Mervin  and 
his  wife  were  dashing  upon.  He's  a  rascal,  sir,  and  he 
ought  to  be  punished,  sir.  Here  is  his  office — closed,  eh  ! 
pity  it  was  ever  opened.  He  ought  to  be  punished,  sir — 
he's  a  rascal,  sir  !" 


THE     MONEY    MAKER.  33 

<:  He's  my  brother,  sir,"  meekly  said  the  weary  man,  as  he 
leaned  for  support  against  the  closed  door  of  the  bankrupt. 

"  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry  !  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for 
hurting  your  feelings ;  I  did  not  intend  to  do  so,  indeed  I  did 
not — it  never  entered  my  mind  that  you  were  his  brother." 

Jesse  Mervin  did  not  reply,  for  his  thoughts  were  con- 
fused and  wandering.  He  was  a  stranger,  surrounded  by 
strange  faces  and  stunning  noises,  and  bowed  with  shame 
to  the  dust.  He  had  no  money  to  take  him  back  to  his 
home,  for  it  was  with  difficulty  he  obtained  enough  to  bring 
him  to  the  city.  He  had  struggled  through  sickness  and 
want — had  left  his  son  still  feeble  from  severe  illness — had 
hoped  for  relief  even  until  now,  when  he  found  himself  de- 
ceived and  ruined  by — his  brother! 

A  prayer  that  God  would  forgive  that  brother,  was  all 
the  revenge  taken  by  Jesse  Mervin  for  ingratitude  and 
wrong.  He  had  imbibed  the  spirit  of  his  Master,  the  spirit 
of  Him  who  prayed  even  for  His  murderers — "  Father, 
forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do." 


CHAPTER   VI. 

JUST  at  the  moment  when  her  triumph  was  at  its  height — 
when  she  looked  for  naught  but  admiration  and  applause — 
when  her  wealth,  her  position  in  society,  her  success  in  the 
world  of  fashion,  had  filled  her  heart  with  overweening 
vanity — just  then  did  Mrs.  Mervin  fall  from  her  pride  of 
place,  and  become  to  the  envious  a  thing  for  jeers  and 
mirth.  Stripped  of  her  ermine  and  her  jewels,  and  obliged 


34  THE     MONEY-MAKER. 

to  return  to  the  humble  home  of  her  mother,  to  that  home 
which  had  witnessed  her  falsehood,  and  her  base  barter  of 
herself  for  gold ;  with  ambition  and  love  of  show  still 
strong  within  her,  and  striving  with  mortified  pride  ;  she 
became  peevish  and  irritable,  and  dragged  on  an  unhappy 
existence — a  burden  to  her  friends  and  a  constant  source 
of  annoyance  to  every  member  of  her  family.  Thus  was 
verified  the  prediction — "  That  no  good  could  come  of  false- 
hood and  deceit." 

John  Mervin's  sudden  failure  was  like  the  bursting  of  a 
bubble;  you  looked  for  it,  audio!  it  was  gone  !  His  had  been 
floating  capital,  and  the  winds  of  extravagance  and  specu- 
lation had  borne  it  entirely  away !  He  was  once  more 
poor,  poor  as  when  with  his  bundle  and  his  staff  he  turned 
his  back  upon  a  brother's  love.  Nor  was  this  all — he 
might  have  been  unfortunate,  and  men  even  while  they 
blamed  his  rashness,  would  have  pitied  his  fall.  But  in  the 
strict  scrutiny  which  his  indignant  creditors  made  into  his 
affairs,  an  attempt  at  concealment — a  wide  laid  scheme  of 
treachery  was  disclosed,  by  which  the  wretched  man  had 
thought  to  appropriate  to  his  own  use,  what  was  no  longer 
honestly  his.  This  was  the  secret  of  his  lonely  vigils, 
when  he  cautiously  took  down  folio  after  folio,  and  stole 
home  before  the  dawn  of  day.  He  had  made  a  fraudulent 
assignment  to  one  on  whose  good  faith  he  thought  he  could 
rely ;  but  the  quondam  friend  refused  to  render  back  the 
spoils,  absconded  with  what  he  had  so  iniquitously  ob- 
tained, and  the  deceiver  was  in  turn  deceived. 

Yes,  John  Mervin  had  ruined  himself,  and  had  dragged 
down  hundreds  in  his  fall.  He  had  ruined  himself!  His 
wealth,  to  which  he  owed  a  fictitious  importance,  had 
eluded  his  grasp,  and  his  reputation — his  honesty — his  good 


THE     MO  KEY- MAKER.  35 

name — of  more  value  than  millions  upon  millions  of  sordid 
gold — these  priceless  jewels  he  had  wickedly  thrown  away  ! 

In  his  early  career  he  was  hard,  grasping,  avaricious. 
None  could  remember  that  he  had  ever  fed  the  hungry,  or 
clothed  the  naked,  or  done  one  kind  and  generous  deed  tc 
a  brother  man.  In  later  years  his  wife's  ambition  had 
stimulated  his  vanitj^,  and  still  the  object  was  self! 

As  if  there  were  no  life  but  this — no  future  in  which  he 
would  be  called  to  give  an  account  of  his  stewardship — as 
if  there  were  no  world  but  this  in  which  to  lay  up  treasures 
— and  no  treasures  to  be  laid  up  but  such  as  perish  in  the 
using ! 

John  Mervin  suffered  the  punishment  which  does  not 
always  in  this  life  overtake  the  wrong-doer,  and  wandered 
from  the  city  which  had  been  the  scene  of  his  eventful  for- 
tunes. 

Sick,  weary,  and  with  his  mind  strangely  bewildered, 
he  had  walked  far  one  day,  and  his  feet  were  swollen  and 
blistered,  and  his  head  ached  from  exposure  to  the  noon- 
day sun. 

Now  cool  shadows  fell  from  the  broad  trees,  and^  the 
evening  wind  fanned  his  fevered  brow.  Nature  was  sing- 
ing her  evening  lullaby,  and  the  flowers  drooped  their  petals 
and  folded  their  leaves,  and  the  birds  hushed  their  songs, 
and  with  heads  hidden  behind  their  wings,  betook  them  to 
repose.  Slant  rays  of  glory  quivered  through  the  trees,  as 
the  broad  disc  of  the  golden  sun  disappeared  behind  a 
mass  of  crimsoned  clouds.  '•  Still  lingered  twilight  at 
heaven's  western  gate,"  making  broad  paths  of  radiance 
on  which  angels  might  descend  to  earth.  A  little  deeper 
grew  the  shade — a  little  deeper — and  then  uprose  the  har- 
vest-moon, flooding  both  earth  and  heaven  with  silvery 


36  THE     MONEY-MAKEK. 

light.  Calm,  peaceful,  holy  was  the  scene,  and  under  its 
softening  influence  the  hard-hearted,  the  avaricious,  the 
ruined  man  bowed  his  head  and  wept!  He  bowed  his 
head  and  wept,  bitterly,  in  agony  he  wept !  The  fountain 
of  thought  was  stirred,  and  earnestly,  sorrowfully,  did  he 
gaze  into  the  troubled  waters ! 

For  about  an  hour  he  sat  thus,  then  rose  and  tottered 
to  a  house  not  far  distant.  Through  an  open  window  he 
saw  the  family  at  their  evening  devotions.  They  were 
praying  to  the  God  whom  he  had  for  so  many  years  for- 
gotten— to  the  God  to  whom  in  childhood  he  had  been 
taught  to  pray.  Awed  and  conscience-smitten,  he  turned 
away.  Again  he  went  back  and  put  his  foot  on  the  thresh- 
old, but  his  heart  failed  him  and  he  crept  away  toward  the 
barn.  Pulling  out  the  wooden  pin  that  fastened  the  latch, 
he  entered,  and  overcome  by  fatigue  sat  down  and  fell 
Asleep. 

A  cloudless  morning  shed  its  light  on  the  dew-bejeweled 
earth,  and  the  flowers  raised  their  heads,  and  the  birds 
shook  their  plumage  and  soared  heavenward,  singing  their 
matin  song. 

The  lowing  of  cattle,  the  tinkling  of  bells,  the  whirring 
of  insect  wings,  and  the  thousand  sounds  of  life  were  heard 
on  every  side,  but  the  tired  traveller  did  not  awake ! 

Two  men  left  the  house  on  the  threshold  of  which  he 
faltered  the  night  before.  They  stood  looking  at  a  broad 
field  of  maize  which  covered  a  gentle  slope,  and  was  fast 
ripening  in  the  genial  sunshine.  On  every  side  were 
marks  of  thrift  and  care.  Not  a  spot  that  could  be  ren- 
dered available  was  left  untilled,  and  silken  swathed  corn, 
and  bearded  grain,  alike  promised  a  rich  harvest. 

"  Thank  God,  the  abundance  of  this  year's  crop  will 


THE     MONET-MAKER.  87 

make  up  for  the  failure  of  the  last,"  said  the  eldei  ot  the 
two  men,  "  and  Mr.  Croome  shall  have  a  barrel  of  fiour 
from  my  best  wheat  as  soon  as  it  is  ready." 

"  You  have  paid  him  all  he  lent  to  bring  you  home,  I 
believe,  father." 

':  Yes,  but  his  kindness  I  can  never  repay.  The  poor 
man  has  been  a  heavy  loser  by  my  brother's  failure,  and 
now  that  you  have  grown  strong  again.  Archie,  and  that 
Providence  has  blessed  our  labors,  we  must  try  and  do 
something  to  help  Mr.  Croome." 

"  Isn't  it  strange,  father,  that  nothing  can  be  heard  of 
my  uncle  ?  I  often  wonder  where  he  has  gone,  or  what 
has  become  of  him — don't  you  ?" 

This  was  the  one  subject  on  which  Jesse  Mervin  seldom 
spoke  to  his  children,  and  could  he  have  concealed  his 
brother's  guilt,  he  would  gladly  have  done  so.  But  when 
he  returned  home  sick  and  dispirited,  with  no  money  save 
what  had  been  loaned  him  by  a  stranger,  concealment  was 
no  longer  possible. 

"  Yes,  I  wonder,  too,  my  son,  and  it  is  my  daily  prayer 
that  I  may  live  to  see  him  once  more.  How  comfortable 
he  could  be  with  us,  Archie.  "Well,  well,  God  knows  best." 

The  two  men  now  turned  their  steps  toward  the  barn, 
and  Jesse  Mervin  was  the  first  to  enter.  As  he  did  so  he 
started,  for  just  inside  the  door  lay  a  man  poorly  clad,  his 
head  resting  on  one  arm,  while  his  face  was  partly  con- 
cealed by  the  other. 

"  Here  is  some  unfortunate  being  who  must  have  been 
intoxicated  and  lain  down  to  sleep.  Help  me  a  little, 
Archie,  and  we  will  put  him  on  the  hay.  this  is  rather  a 
hard  bed  for  him." 

Jesse  Mervin  stooped  down,  and   as  he  attempted  to 


38  THE      MOXEY-MAKER. 

raise  the  stranger,  the  hand  fell  which  had  covered  the 
face,  and  exposed  to  view  the  emaciated  features. 

"  Just  God  !  can  this  be  he  ?  0,  I  dreamed  not  of  such 
a  meeting  when  I  prayed  that  I  might  see  him  again." 

Archie  Mervin  needed  no  more  to  tell  him  who  it  was 
that  lay  before  them,  and  he  hastened  to  the  side  of  his 
father,  who  in  agony  was  rubbing  the  hands,  and  chafing 
the  temples  of  the  apparently  lifeless  man. 

"  Speak  to  me,  John — only  one  word  speak  to  me — do 
you  know  me  ? — it  ^is  rne — it  is  Jesse — it  is  your  brother 
— John  ! — John  ! — for  God's  sake  speak  to  me  !" 

John  Mervin's  chest  heaved — his  lips  moved — his  eyes 
opened,  and  he  looked  at  his  brother.  0,  the  imploring 
agony  of  that  look  !  0,  the  anguish  of  him  who  bent  to 
hear  the  gasping  sounds  that  struggled  for  utterance ! 
"  For-give — me — for-give — me — broth-er." 

"  As  I  hope  for  forgiveness  from  God,  so  do  I  forgive 
you,  my  brother." 

Jesse  felt  the  relaxing  fingers  striving  to  return  his 
grasp.  Over  the  face  of  the  dying  man  came  a  faint  smile, 
the  shadow  of  what  had  rested  there  in  boyhood — and 
again,  John  Mervin  slept ! 

But  now  it  was  a  sleep  over  which  a  brother's  voice  had 
no  power !  A  sleep  that  would  never  more  be  broken  un- 
til the  trump  of  the  archangel  awake  the  dead!  In  the 
outhouse  of  the  brother  to  whom  he  had  been  so  ungrate- 
ful— in  the  arms  of  the  brother  whom  he  had  so  cruelly 
wronged,  stripped  of  the  wealth  for  which  he  had  hardened 
his  heart  and  periled  his  salvation — John  Mervin  slept ! 


r  $  r  i  s  t  ? 


UNCLE  WALTER'S   STORY. 


..-..,  i/,, 

7T5 

!  <ht 

is  the  age  of  progress,  of  telegraph,  of  steam,  of 
J-  social  go-a-head-ativeness,  or,  in  other  words,  the  age 
of  making  haste  to  be  rich,  with  too  often  a  stolid  obliv- 
iousness  of  the  snare  into  which  the  winner  of  wealth  might 
fall  at  the  end  of  the  race.  What  has  such  an  age  to  do 
with  love  stories  ?  Are  not  such  old-fashioned  notions 
exploded  ?  And  has  it  not  become  problematical  whether 
the  passion  known  by  the  name  of  love  ever  had  existence  ; 
and  if  it  ever  did  exist,  save  in  the  brain  of  some  demented 
girl,  should  it  not  be  frowned  out  of  society  ? 

"  Heyday  !  my  little  niece  ;  what  is  all  this  tirade  about  ? 
What  surly  woman-hater  has  been  decrying  the  novelettes 
of  the  day  ?" 

"  Oh  !  Uncle  Walter  ;  how  did  you  manage  to  steal  in 
so  quietly,  and  look  over  my  shoulder  without  my  being 
aware  of  it  ?" 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  mean  to  escape  —  answering  one 
question  by  asking  another  ?  It  was  very  easy  for  me  to 
slip  through  an  open  door  to  which  your  back  was  turned, 
while  your  head  was  bent  down,  and  your  mind  was  pon- 
dering on  love  stories." 


40  CHRISTINE. 

"  Not  exactly  on  love  stories,  uncle,  but  on  the  hue  and 
cry  raised  against  them,  when  they  appear  in  the  maga- 
zines. Lengthen  out  a  love  tale,  aud  publish  it  in  a  book ; 
that  is  altogether  a  different  affair,  and  no  voice  is  raised 
against  it.  Yet  I  venture  to  say,  that  in  all  the  love 
stories  published  in  our  magazines  since  they  were  first 
issued,  there  will  not  be  found  a  tithe  of  the  immorality 
that  teems  in  the  foreign  novels  whose  translations  almost 
flood  the  press.  Now,  the  world  is  full  of  love.  From 
the  bright  birds,  which,  in  the  summer  sunshine,  pour  love- 
melody  upon  the  breeze — from  the  tiniest  blossom  that 
rears  its  head  to  drink  the  splendors  of  the  golden  day — 
from  these,  up  to  the  homes  and  hearths  consecrated  by 
the  holiest  sympathies  of  our  nature,  (and  oh  !  God  help 
the  homes  where  love  is  not !) — from  these,  link  by  link,  up 
to  the  golden  chain  by  which  angels  pass  from  earth  to 
heaven — from  these,  upward  still,  higher,  still  higher,  up 
to  where  burning  seraphs  sing  their  praise  before  the  great 
white  throne — all,  all  is  love  !" 

"  Hey,  what  a  flight !  But  what  has  such  love  to  do 
with  sickly,  sentimental  love-stories  ?" 

"  Dear  uncle,  let  us  understand  each  other.  I  have  no 
sympathy  with  what  you  call  sickly  sentimentalisiu,  but 
love,  true  love,  is  one  of  the  most  ennobling  passions  of  the 
human  heart.  Every  thought  of  self  is  merged  in  the  one 
desire  how  best  to  promote  the  happiness  of  the  beloved  ; 
hence  that  most  hateful  of  hated  vices,  selfishness,  cannot 
dwell  with  true  love.  It  will  not  stoop  to  petty  deceits,  to 
shifts,  to  subterfuges;  hence  all  that  is  open,  candid,  hon- 
est, belongs  to  true  love.  It  will  not  swerve  from  the  path 
of  duty,  but  will  pass  unfaltering  through  the  furnace  of 
trial  with  the  love-angel  folded  to  its  heart.  Look  at  the 


UNCLE    WALTER'S    STORY.  41 

babe  upon  its  mother's  knee  !  its  first  lispings  are  words  of 
love.  Look  at  the  wife  who  has  pledged  her  vows  at  the 
holy  altar.  See  her  brightening  her  husband's  home  with 
sunny  smiles;  see  her  watching  over  him  in  sickness,  sooth- 
ing him  in  sorrow,  and  when  misfortunes  lower  around 
him,  see  her  cling  to  him  more  tenderly.  When,  perhaps, 
prompted  by  despair,  he  wishes  to  be  left  alone  in  his 
wretchedness,  and  exclaims,  '  Leave  me,'  listen  to  the  wife- 
ly answer,  'Why,  all  have  left  thee!'  " 

"  Stop,  niece,  pray  stop.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  fol- 
low in  that  love-world  of  yours.  I  meant  that  you  should 
read  to  me  for  an  hour  or  two.  Here,  sit  down  like  a  sen- 
sible girl,  and  read  the  '  Vestiges  of  Creation.'  Away 
with  the  frivolities  of  love,  and  let  us  in  stead  have  the 
mysteries  of  science." 

"  Uncle  dear,  don't  ask  me  to  read  that  book  now.  Its 
theories  are  very  ingenious,  but  you  know  I  belong  to  the 
same  class  as  Covvper's  good  datne,  who 

"Knew,  and  knew  no  more,  her  Bible  true" 

Now,  to  one  that  believes  that  God  made  man  in  his  own 
image,  and  breathed  into  his  nostrils  the  breath  of  life,  it 
is  very  absurd  to  imagine  that  the  poor  biped  passed 
through  so  many  transformations  as  the  authoi  of  the 
'Vestiges'  would  have  us  believe  he  did." 

"  You  are  in  a  very  captious  mood  to-day,"  said  my 
uncle.  "  What  say  you  to  Hooker's  Ecclesiastical  Polity  ? 
No  !  Well,  here  is  old  Burton  himself.  Let  us  study  for 
awhile  his  quaint  '  Anatomic.'  " 

I  saw  by  the  twinkle  in  Uncle  Walter's  eye  that  he  was 
jesting  with  me,  and  I  determined  to  punish  him  forth- 
with. Pushing  aside  the  books  and  papers  lying  or  the 


42  CHRISTINE. 

table,  and  wheeling  a  large  arm-chair,  such  as  has  been 
aptly  termed  "  Sleepy  Hollow,"  in  front  of  the  open  win- 
dow, I  took  his  hands  in  mine,  and  led  him  to  the  seat. 

"Now,  uncle,"  said  I,  "you  arc  my  prisoner  until  you 
tell  me  a  veritable  love-story." 

"  Nonsense,  child,  I  can't  tell  one." 

"  Oh !  uncle,  uncle ;  don't  you  recollect  how  a.  caught 
you  one  evening  repeating — 

'  Oh !  love,  religion,  music  ;  all 
That's  left  of  Eden  upon  earth!' 

Have  you  forgotten  your  admiration  of  that  most  exquisite 
passage  in  Coleridge's  Walleustein — 

'For  fable  is  Love's  borne  !' 

Uncle  mine,  you  must  tell  mo  a  love  story.  I  am  sure 
you  can  tell  one  just  as  easily  as  you  repeated  '  Beauty 
and  the  Beast,'  when  I  sat  on  your  knee  long  ago.  That's 
a  dear,  good  uucle  ;  you  will,  will  you  not  ?" 

Uncle  Walter's  face  grew  grave  and  sad,  and  I  had  come 
to  the  resolution  not  to  torment  him  any  more,  when  he 
said : 

"  I  will  go  to  my  room  for  a  few  moments ;  when  I  re- 
turn, I  will  tell  you  a  story." 

Uncle  Walter  was  my  mother's  eldest  brother.  He  was 
a  bachelor,  and  though  over  fifty,  we  never  called  him  old 
bachelor.  Old!  the  idea  was  preposterous  !  Dear  U/.cle 
Walter,  with  liis  fine,  florid  complexion,  and  bright  hazel 
eye,  with  a  kind  word  ever  on  his  lip,  and  a  perpetual 
fountain  of  love  within  his  heart;  ever  ready  to  tell  fairj 
tales,  or  to  join  in  blind-mau's-buff;  the  most  expert  in 
raising  the  Christmas  tree,  and  the  most  generous  in  load- 


UNCLE     WALTERS      STORY.  43 

ing  it  with  gifts — it  would  have  been  a  libel  to  call  Uncle 
Walter  old  bachelor. 

In  his  youth,  my  uncle  had  travelled  much  in  foreign 
parts.  He  had  visited  most  of  Northern  Europe,  and 
when  I  was  a  little  girl,  iny  place  was  on  his  knee,  where  I 
listened  with  wonder  to  his  tales  of  Russia,  shuddered  as 
he  spoke  of  the  Norwegian  Maelstrom,  or  hung  delighted 
on  his  pictures  of  Swedish  life.  How  have  those  old  talks 
with  Uncle  Walter  since  given  redoubled  zest  to  Frederica 
Bremer's  tales  of  Sweden  ! 

When  my  uncle  returned  he  had  a  package  in  his  hand, 
whicji  he  laid  upon  my  writing-desk,  and  after  sitting  silent 
some  minutes,  he  said  to  me — 

"  There  is  something  I  have  brought  for  you  to  look  at." 

I  broke  the  seal  of  the  envelope,  and  saw  several  letters, 
the  paper  of  which  had  grown  yellow,  and  the  ink  faded. 
One  small  parcel  was  tied  with  a  ribbon.  I  held  it  in  my 
hand,  and  glanced  inquiringly  at  my  uncle. 

"  Open  it,"  he  said,  in  a  tremulous  voice.  Mechanically 
I  obeyed.  It  was  a  miniature  on  ivory  of  a  young  and 
lovely  woman.  There  were  the  bright  blue  eyes  and  soft 
flaxen  hair  peculiar  to  Swedish  women,  while  the  counte- 
nance was  calm,  holy,  and  Madonna-like  in  its  purity  and 
beauty. 

"  Oh!  who  is  this  lovely  creature?"  I  exclaimed,  press- 
ing the  beautiful  semblance  to  my  lips.  "  Uncle,  dear,  I 
am  filled  with  curiosity ;  do  tell  me  all  about  her.  I  am 
sure  hers  must  be  a  love  story." 

Uncle  Walter  looked  disturbed,  and  sighed  deeply.  I 
had  never  seen  him  so  moved  before,  and  surmising  that  he 
had  more  than  a  common  interest  in  the  original  of  the 
miniature,  1  repented  of  my  folly,  and  begging  him  to 


44  CHRISTINE. 

think  no  more  of  the  story,  said  that  I  would  read  to  him. 
Taking  down  Willis'  poem  3,  I  opened  at  "  Hagar  in  the 
Wilderness,"  which  I  knew  to  be  an  especial  favorite  of  my 
uncle's,  and  commenced  reading. 

He  had  thrown  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  covered 
his  face  with  one  of  his  hands.  I  was  sitting  beside  him 
on  a  low  ottoman,  holding  in  mine  the  hand  that  lay  list- 
lessly in  his  lap.  I  read  on,  until  I  reached  the  beautiful 
lines — 

"  Oh  1  man  may  bear  with  suffering ;  his  heart 
Is  a  strong  thing,  and  godlike  in  the  grasp 
Of  pain  that  wrings  mortality :  but  tear 
One  cord  affection  clings  to,  part  one  tie 
That  binds  him  to  a  woman's  delicate  love, 
And  his  great  spirit  yieldeth  like  a  reed." 

While  reading  this  passage,  I  felt  my  uncle's  hand  trem- 
ble in  mine,  and  I  laid  down  the  book.  It  appeared  as  if 
everything  I  did,  instead  of  soothing,  as  I  intended,  but 
pained  him  more  and  more.  I  sat  silent,  with  tears  in  my 
eyes,  fearful  that  if  I  attempted  further  kindness,  I  should 
but  blunder  upon  some  wrong  method  of  showing  it.  My 
uncle  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Dear  child,"  said  he,  laying  his  hand  caressingly  on  my 
head,  "  I  thought  that  I  could  bear  with  more  fortitude 
these  remembrances  of  the  past.  I  meant  some  day  or 
other  to  give  you  that  miniature,  and  to  tell  you  of  the 
original.  Let  me  tell  you  now — nay,"  he  added,  seeing 
me  about  to  speak,  "  it  must  be  now.  or  my  courage  may 
again  fail  me." 

I  drew  closer  to  Sleepy  Hollow,  placed  my  finger  on  my 
lip,  as  I  am  wont  to  do  when  I  am  anxious  to  hear  every 
word  that  is  spoken,  and  listened  to  my  uncle's  story. 


ir»cL£    WALTER'S    SIOR*.  45 

t:  When  I  first  went  abroad,  I  was  intrusted  with  letters 
From  a  highly  esteemed  friend  to  his  relatives  in  Stock- 
holm. 

"  It  was  on  a  Sunday  that  I  went  to  the  house  of  Gus- 
tave  Bernstein,  for  the  purpose  of  delivering  the  parcels  I 
had  in  charge,  The  bells  were  ringing  for  morning  service, 
and  some  of  the  members  of  Mr.  Bernstein's  family  had 
already  gone  to  church.  He  was  still  at  home,  and  re- 
ceived me  warmly.  After  many  inquiries  concerning  his 
relatives,  he  told  me  that  the  rite  of  coufirmation  was  that 
day  to  be  administered  by  the  Bishop,  and  invited  me,  if 
I  had  no  pressing  engagement,  to  accompany  him  and  see 
the  ceremony.  I  consented  gladly.  Holy  and  beautiful 
sight !  The  youth  of  both  sexes  filled  the  chancel  around 
the  altar. 

1  On  the  right  hand  the  boys  had  their  places, 
Delicate  figures,  with  close  curling  hair  and  cheeks  rosy-blooming ; 
But  on  the  left  hand  of  these,  there  stood  the  tremulous  lilies, 
Tinged  with  the   blushing  light  of  the  morning,  the  diffident 

maidens, 
Folding  their  hands  in  prayer,  and  their  eyes  cast  down  on  the 

pavement,' 

'  Among  that  group  of  fair  young  maidens  was  one) 
whose  saint-like  countenance  full  of  the  inner  light  of  the 
spiritual  life,  drew  my  thoughts  from  all  the  rest.  It 
seemed  in  that  blessed  moment  as  if  her  guardian  angel 
hovered  so  near  that  he  cast  the  reflection  of  his  own 
brightness  on  her  who  was  the  object  of  his  care. 

"  My  soul  was  soothed  and  elevated  as  I  continued  to 
gaze  on  the  young  girl's  angelic  beauty,  and  the  world, 
with  its  petty  carqe  and  clashing  interests,  was  forgotten. 
The  blessing  was  pronounced.  Tho  Solemn  strain*;  of 


46  CHRISTINE. 

Handel  pealed  from  the  organ.  The  congregation  slowly 
moved  from  the  sacred  edifice.  I  could  thiak  of  nothing 
but  the  vision  of  purity  which  had  been  revealed  to  my 
sight.  I  went  home  with  Mr.  Bernstein,  like  one  who 
walks  in  his  sleep.  Accepting  his  invitation  to  dinner,  I 
strove  to  rouse  myself  from  the  abstraction  into  which  I 
Lad  fallen,  and  talked  with  my  host  of  his  relatives  be- 
yond the  sea.  While  conversing,  the  door  opened  and  a 
female  entered. 

"  '  Christine,'  said  Mr.  Bernstein,  '  this  is  the  gentleman 
who  brought  you  the  miniature  of  your  aunt ;'  then  turn- 
ing to  me  he  introduced  his  niece. 

"  I  knew  not,  in  my-coufusion,  what  I  said,  but  I  saw 
that  Christine  blushed.  It  must  have  been  that  she-  felt 
for  my  embarrassment.  With  a  charming  frankness,  she 
extended  her  hand  and  told  me  how  much  she  thanked  me 
for  having  brought  these  love-tokens  from  abroad.  I  was 
in  Elysium  !  The  hand  that  pressed  mine  was  that  of  the 
young  maiden,  whose  angel  watched  beside  her  at  the  altar. 
Yes,  that  maiden  was  Christine  ! 

"  Open-hearted  hospitality,  simple,  unobtrusive  kindness, 
threw  a  charm  around  the  home  of  my  Swedish  friends, 
and  during  my  stay  in  Stockholm  I  was  their  daily  guest. 

"  From  her  uncle  I  learned  that  Christine  was  mother- 
less, and  that  from  the  age  of  five  years  she  had  grown  up 
under  the  charge  of  her  father,  the  estimable  pastor  Bern- 
stein 

"  Living  a  life  of  seclusion  in  a  village  whose  inhabitants 
were  marked  by  an  almost  patriarchal  simplicity  of  habits 
and  pursuits,  Christine  had  reached  womanhood  with  a 
spirit  stainless  as  the  lotus-leaf,  when  it  first  unfolds  its 
beauties  to  the  light  of  day. 


UNCLE      WALTER    S     STORY. 


47 


"  About  a  year  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  the  good 
clergyman  bad  received  'into  bis  bouse  the  orphan  son  of 
a^i  old  friend.  Carl  and  Christine  shared  the  same  sports 
and  the  same  studies  '  Baith  bent  down  ower  ae  braid 
page,'  and  the  boy  watched  with  delight  his  companion's 
thirst  for  knowledge — thirst  as  intense  as  that  of  LILIS, 
who  won  the  bright-winged  angel  from  bis  native  heaven. 
Ah  !  Christine  wanted  but  the  wings  to  make  her  an  angel 
too  !  And  yet  she  was  a  very  woman  in  her  quick,  ardent 
feelings,  in  her  strong  capacity  for  loving,  in  her  ideal 
dr earnings,  fostered  by  familiarity  with  the  Sagas  of  her 
native  land. 

"But  this  was  Christine's  inner  world.  Here  she  dwelt 
apart,  communing  with  the  beautiful  and  good.  She  af- 
fected no  eccentricities  of  speech  or  conduct.  She  made 
no  unwomanly  display  of  her  deep  and  varied  acquirements. 
To  the  every-day  observer  she  was  but  the  quiet  daughter 
of  a  quiet  country  pastor,  moving  in  her  limited  sphere  of 
duty  with  a  calm  demeanor,  and  a  kind  care  for  every  one 
of  her  father's  parishioners.  To  her  father  she  was  the 
ever  attentive,  loving  child  ;  nurse,  housekeeper,  compan- 
ion ;  the  light  of  his  home,  and  the  pride  of  his  heart. 
To  the  boy  Carl  she  was  the  embodiment  of  all  sweet  and 
lovely  thoughts ;  an  idol  to  be  worshipped  ;  a  blessed  child 
of  dream-land ;  an  Undine,  with  her  woman  soul,  calm, 
subdued,  and  holy  as  a  poet's  dream  of  love. 

"  Ala,s  for  Carl  !  Christine  regarded  him  but  as  a  dear 
brother.  Her  very  confidingness,  her  open,  child-like 
kindnes?,  "taught  him  this.  When,  after  an  absence  of  four 
years  at  the  university,  he  i*3turned  to  find  his  playmate 
grown  to  womanhood,  and  when  she  met  him  frankly,  with 
no  blusr  on  her  cheek,  no  sinking  of  the  voice,  no  nervous 


48  CHRISTINE. 

trembling  of  the  hand ;  while  his  heart  throbbed  tumul- 
tuously,  and  his  lips  could  hardly  fashion  their  utterance 
to  meet  her  ear — in  that  moment  was  dissipated  the  golden 
day  dream  of  the  student's  life.  In  that  moment  he  knew 
that  he  was  not  beloved. 

"  Pastor  Bernstein  gazed  delightedly  on  his  own  boy, 
as  he  fondly  called  Carl,  and  already  in  fancy  saw  him  the 
husband  of  Christine. 

"  The  good  old  man  had  long  wished  that  his  young 
friend  might  be  his  successor  in  the  ministry,  and  that,  ere 
he  slept  with  his  fathers,  he  might  give  his  darling  child 
to  the  fond  protection  of  his  favorite.  It  never  occurred 
to  the  worthy  pastor  that  his  daughter  might  not  love  Carl. 
He  had  seen  them  grow  up  from  childhood  apparently  at- 
tached to  each  other ;  one  in  their  pursuits,  their  sorrows 
and  their  joys,  and  he  hoped  that  the  cord  was  silently  and 
surely  weaving,  which  would  make  them  one  in  their  fates 
and  in  their  lives. 

"Bitter  was  his  disappointment  when  he  learned  that 
there  was  no  foundation  for  his  hope,  and  so  anxious  was 
he  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  wishes,  that  he  bade  the 
young  man  not  despair,  for  Christine  might  yet  be  won. 
He  daily  watched  his  daughter,  as  if  his  happiness  de- 
pended on  any  show  of  kindness  from  her  to  Carl ;  and  if 
he  thought  at  any  time  her  manner  toward  him  was  more 
tender  than  usual,  the  old  man's  eyes  would  brighten  with 
delight 

"  It  was  while  matters  were  in  this  state,  that  I  arrived 
in  Stockholm,  and  was  present  at  the  confirmation  of  Chris- 
tine. She  had  then  been  staying  a  month  with  her  rela- 
tives, and  was  soon  to  go  home.  Her  uncle  would  accom- 
pany her,  arid  a  warm  invitation  was  given  me  to  go  with 


UNCLE    WALTER'S    STORY.  49 

them,  and  let  the  pastor  hear  from  my  own  lips  of  the 
welfare  of  his  dearly-loved  youngest  sister.  Almost  too 
glad  to  speak  my  thanks,  and  afraid  that  my  emotion  might 
betray  itself,  I  accepted  the  invitation. 

"  There  are  some  quiet,  out-of-the-way  nooks  in  this  world 
of  ours,  which  serve  to  remind  one  of  Eden  before  the 
serpent  left  his  trail  upon  the  flowers,  and  such  a  spot  was 
the  parsonage  of  good  pastor  Bernstein.  There  are  some 
fresh,  young,  innocent  hearts  which  would  have  been  meet 
inhabitants  of  that  primeval  paradise  ere  the  first  woman 
believed  too  easily  the  serpent's  honied  lies.  Such  a  heart 
was  Christine's. 

"  It  was  enough  for  the  old  man  to  learn  that  I  knew 
and  esteemed  his  sister,  to  win  for  me  his  warmest  hospi- 
tality ;  and  when  Gustave  Bernstein  was  about  to  return 
hom,e,  it  needed  little  persuasion  to  make  me  remain.  A 
love  of  nature,  a  love  of  books,  a  love  of  Christine — what 
a  world  of  happiness  was  mine  in  that  secluded  parsonage  ? 
And  when  a  fawn-like  shyness,  a  sudden  drooping  of  the 
eyelid,  a  quick  mounting  of  the  eloquent  blood,  all  told 
me  in  unmistakable  language  that  Christine  regarded  me 
in  a  warmer  light  than  that  of  a  friend,  my  heart  was  in- 
toxicated with  the  fulness  of  its  bliss. 

"  Pastor  Bernstein  was  unconscious  of  our  mutual  pas- 
sion ;  but  Carl — from  my  heart  I  pitied  him  !  With  the 
unrequited  love  of  a  life-time  corroding  into  his  soul,  he 
was  doomed  daily  to  see  the  mute  tokens  of  Christine's  de- 
votion to  another.  I  call  them  mute  tokens,  for  the  gentle 
girl  shrank  from  paining  the  playmate  of  her  early  years 
by  any  show  of  preference  for  me  when  he  was  present.  A 
soft  delicious  languor  was  steeping  my  senses  in  forgetful- 
ness,  when  I  Was  roused  by  a  letter  from  home. 
3 


50  CHRISTINE. 

"  My  mother,  whom  I  had  left  in  the  full  enjoyment  of 
health,  was  alarmingly  ill,  and  my  father  wrote  ibr  my  im- 
mediate return.  I  was  inexpressibly  shocked  at  this  intel- 
ligence. This  was  not  a  time  to  speak  to  pastor  Bernstein 
of  my  love  for  his  daughter.  My  feelings  were  too  much 
harrowed  at  the  thought  of  losing  my  mother,  and  my  con- 
science reproached  me  with  the  selfishness  which  had  lulled 
me  into  forgetfulness  of  home. 

"  My  noble  Christine  !  how  tenderly  she  sought  to  sooth 
my  grief,  and  to  make  me  believe  that  we  should  soon  be 
re-united.  My  darling  Christine  !  how  she  outpoured  the 
rich  hoard  of  her  love  to  bless  me  in  the  hour  of  parting. 

"  '  I  dread  the  effect  on  my  father,  when  he  can  no  longer 
hope  that  I  may  marry  Carl.  But  I  am  yours,  Walter; 
in  time  and  eternity,  I  am  yours.' 

"  She  checked  herself,  as  if  she  were  saying  too  much. 
Modesty  and  love  dwelt  together  in  her  pure  soul. 

<: '  Bless  you  for  those  words,  my  own  Christine.  1 
know  not  when  I  may  return,  but  if  ever  you  find  me  to 
be  faithless,  from  that  moment  you  are  free.' 

"  She  looked  up  at  me  with  her  dear  innocent  eyes,  won- 
dering why  I  spoke  of  faithlessness  to  her.  Ah !  '  the 
finest  hair  casts  a  shadow.' 

"  It  was  about  two  months  before  I  readied  home. 
My  mother  was  still  living;  but  oh,  my  heart  was  ago- 
nized, as  I  looked  on  the  wan  features  and  attenuated  form 
of  my  beloved  parent.  Contrary  to  all  expectations,  she 
was  spared  to  us  until  the  following  spring.  I  never  left 
her,  except  when  compelled  to  do  so.  The  struggle  be- 
tween death  and  life,  between  the  perishable  body  and  the 
imperishable  spirit,  was  at  length  over.  I  followed  her 
remains  to  the  grave.  I  heard  the  earth  fall  upon  her 


CHRISTINE.  51 

coffin.  Oh  !  mournfullest  of  all  mournful  sounds  !  Then 
we  feel  in  reality  that  our  love  is  no  longer  of  avail.  It 
can  no  more  prepare  the  -warm  place  at  the  fireside,  or 
shelter  from  the  wind  and  the  rain  the  beloved.  The 
forms  once  so  carefully  guarded,  there  they  lie  !  The 
snows  of  winter  fall  upon  them,  the  suns  of  summer  shine 
upon  them,  the  storm  spends  its  fury  on  their  narrow 
dwelling — still,  cold,  unconscious,  there  they  lie !  If  we 
have  grieved  them,  and  if  the  memory  of  our  waywardness 
bows  our  spirits  to  the  dust,  they  hear  not  our  pleadings 
for  pardon,  they  see  not  our  tears  of  agony,  they  cannot 
fold  to  us  their  hearts,  and  whisper  that  we  are  forgiven 
— ah !  no,  no ;  mute,  cold,  unconscious,  there  they  lie ! 
We  shall  not  behold  them  again  until  the  morning  of  the 
resurrection.  Then,  purified,  glorified,  we  shall  behold 
them  again.  '  For  this  corruptible  must  put  on  incorrup- 
tion,  and  this  mortal  must  put  on  immortality !'  Thank 
God,  thank  God  for  the  glorious  hope  ! 

"  My  father  did  not  long  survive  the  loss  of  my  mother. 
Their  union  had  been  so  closely  cemented  by  years  of  mu- 
tual love,  that  the  breaking  of  one  life-cord  loosened  the 
other,  and  in  a  little  while  they  slept  side  by  side  in  their 
silent  home. 

''  Three  sisters  and  a  little  brother  were  left  to  my  care. 
I  could  not  leave  them  alone,  and  thus  violate  the  trust 
reposed  in  me  by  my  dying  parents,  and  yet  my  heart 
yearned  to  be  with  Christine.  I  had  written  to  her,  but 
it  was  so  long  before  I  obtained  an  answer  that  my  spirit 
chafed  under  the  delay.  At  last  I  received  a  letter  from 
Christine.  She  told  me  of  her  father's  sorrow,  and  of  the 
tender  mournfulness  with  which  he  regarded  Carl.  Her 
union  with  me  seemed  to  the  good  pastor  wholly  impracti- 


52  UNCLK    WALTER'S    STORY. 

cable.  I  resided  in  a  distant  land,  and  was  bound  to  it  by 
ties  the  most  sacred.  Never  could  he  part  with  his  darling, 
never  could  he  suffer  her  to  go  from  him — she,  the  one  pet 
lamb  of  the  village  shepherd.  To  such  a  letter  what  reply 
could  I  make,  but  to  beg  Christine  to  wait,  and  to  hope  ? 

"  Before  T  went  abroad  I  had  often  visited  the  family  of 
Mr.  Perceval.  Between  his  daughter  Agnes  and  myself 
had  sprung  up  a  sort  of  flirting  intimacy;  that  is,  I  waited 
on  her  to  places  of  public  amusement,  was  always  the  first 
to  ask  her  hand  for  the  dance,  and  in  many  ways  made 
myself  agreeable  to  her.  Secluded  from  society  by  the 
afflictions  in  our  family,  I  had  seldom  seen  Agnes  since  my 
return,  though  I  found  that  she  was  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  my  sisters,  and  that  I  had  often  been  the  theme  of 
her  discourse.  Agnes  Perceval  was  what  is  called  a  mag- 
nificent woman.  Tall,  of  a  full  and  luxurious  form,  with 
large  black  eyes,  which,  except  when  half  veiled  by  the 
lids,  might  be  thought  too  bold  in  expression ;  a  complex- 
ion in  which  the  slightest  shade  of  olive,  mingling  with  the 
rich  warm  blood  of  youth,  imparted  a  hue  sunny  as  that 
on  the  cheek  of  a  beautiful  Contadina,  Agnes  moved  and 
looked  a  queen. 

"  It  was  strange  that  during  our  long  acquaintance  my 
heart  had  never  done  homage  to  her  charms.  But  hers 
was  not  the  style  of  beauty  I  admired.  It  was  too  com- 
manding, too  Juno-like,  better  fitted  for  the  gayety  of  the 
crowded  salon  than  for  the  quiet  of  the  domestic  hearth. 
Oh,  how  unlike  was  she  to  Christine  ! 

"  When  I  first  met  Agnes,  after  the  death  of  my  father, 
her  manner  was  so  gentle,  so  full  of  sympathy,  that  she  ap- 
peared to  me  in  a  more  favorable  light  than  when  we  had 
laughed  and  flirted  together  before  I  left  home.  Time, 


CHRISTINE.  53 

the  healer  of  many  sorrows,  was  noiselessly  stealing  month 
after  month  of  my  years  of  life,  and  I  once  more  began  to 
mingle  with  my  fellows. 

"  But  everywhere  there  was  a  void.  I  missed  my  bless- 
ed mother's  welcoming  smile,  I  missed  my  noble  father's 
approving  voice,  and  to  add  to  my  wretchedness,  I  heard 
no  more  from  Christine.  Pride  and  jealousy  took  pos- 
session of  my  soul.  I  imagined  her  the  wife  of  Carl,  hap- 
py in  her  new  relations,  blessed  by  her  father,  forgetful  of 
myself.  In  these  unhappy  moments,  when  the  tempest  of 
passion  was  raging  within,  I  was  sometimes  on  the  point 
of  offering  myself  to  Agnes. 

"  '  How  unmanly  it  is,'  I  would  say  to  myself, '  to  suffer 
thus  for  a  woman  who  has  forgotten  me !  I  know  that  Agnes 
regards  me  with  tenderness,  why  not  make  her  happy  ?' 

"But  when  the  mind- storm  was  stilled,  then  questions 
uprose  from  the  innermost  depths  of  the  spirit.  '  Do  you 
love  Agnes  ?  Would  it  be  honorable  to  marry  her  from 
motives  of  jealousy  or  pique?  Would  such  marriage  make 
either  happy  ?'  Loudly  my  heart  answered,  '  no  !' 

"  Agnes  and  my  eldest  sister  were  almost  inseparable. 
They  were  both  accomplished  musicians,  possessing  voices 
of  wonderful  power  and  sweetness,  which  harmonized  and 
blended  together,  like  one  rich  strain  of  airy  harp-chords. 
One  evening  I  was  sitting  alone,  brooding  over  my  griefs. 
The  dim  twilight  was  softly  veiling  all  outward  objects, 
and  gradually,  as  they  faded  from  the  view,  the  light  with- 
in the  soul  became  more  clear  and  radiant.  I  have  often 
thought  it  must  be  so  with  the  blind — that  those  whom 
'ever-during  dark  surrounds,'  must  have  their  mental  vis- 
ion increased  ten-fold.  Oh,  what  hallowed  remembrances 
come  to  us  in  the  soft  hush  of  twilight! 


54  UNCLE    WALTER'S    STORY. 

'  Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door ; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  us  once  more.' 

"  Down  the  long  vista  of  years  glides  thought  after 
thought.  Every  kind  word  to  which  we  have  listened, 
every  warm  hand-pressure  we  have  returned,  every  heart- 
greeting  to  which  our  heart  has  responded,  every  look  and 
every  tone  of  the  parted,  '  the  mourned,  the  loved,  the 
lost,'  there  they  are  in  the  soul-world,  bright  with  the 
mingled  halo  of  memory  and  love.  And  in  the  midrtight, 
the  awful,  solemn  midnight,  how  we  strive  to  look  into  the 
spirit-land,  and  fathom  the  mysterious,  the  unknown ! 
How  we  long  to  soar  above  the  stars,  and  grapple  with  the 
knowledge  of  angels  !  How  the  mind  reels  and  bends  be- 
neath the  weight  of  thought ! 

"  My  sister  and  Agnes  entered  the  room  where  I  was 
sitting  without  observing  me.  They  had  evidently  been 
conversing  together  on  some  exciting  topic,  and  I  heard 
my  sister  say,  '  He  shall  be  rid  of  this  foolish  passion. 
Shame  on  Walter,  that  he  is  not  more  a  man.'  I  was 
about  to  leave  my  seat  when  Agnes  spoke. 

" '  Dear  Margaret,'  said  she  to  my  sister,  '  Walter  does 
not  know  how  fondly  I  love  him.  Oh,  what  would  I  not 
do  to  win  his  love  in  return !' 

"  I  was  shocked  at  this  bold  avowal.  However  much  a 
man  may  be  gratified  by  the  love  of  a  beautiful  woman, 
his  better  nature  revolts  at  hearing  the  declaration  of  pas- 
sion come  first  from  her.  It  is  like  stripping  the  moss 
from  the  bud  of  the  rose,  like  crushing  the  fragrance  from 
the  dewy  violet. 

"  I  was  certainly  in  an  unenviable,  and,  as  it  appeared 


CHRISTINE.  55 

to  me,  a  dishonorable  position ;  but  motives  of  delicacy 
toward  Agnes  now  prevented  my  disclosing  myself,  and  I 
drew  farther  behind  the  curtain  that  draped  the  window. 

"  '  Do  you  think,  Margaret,'  said  Agnes,  resuming  the 
conversation,  '  that  Christine  really  loves  your  brother? 
I  do  not.  How  could  she  permit  him  to  leave  her  without 
knowing  when  he  might  return  ?  Why  did  she  not  ac- 
company him — if  not  with  her  father's  consent,  why  then 
without  it?  No,  no,  she  does  not  love  "Walter  as  she 
ought.  You  remember  your  telling  me  what  your  brother 
said  about  her  loveliness  when  he  placed  the  half- blown 
rose  in  Christine's  hair.' 

"  Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  Agnes  turned  to  the  piano 
and  commenced  singing — 

Oh,  take  from  thy  clustering  curls  the  rose, 

"Why,  false  one,  why  should  it  linger  there  ? 
Thou  hast  taught  another  his  trust  to  repose ; 

He  has  placed  that  bud  in  thy  golden  hair. 
But  ere  the  perfume  has  left  the  flower, 

Thou  wilt  tire  like  the  child  of  his  gilded  toy, 
And  tiring  thus  thou  wilt  scorn  the  hour 

That  brings  to  thy  feet  the  enamored  boy. 

Then  take  the  rose  from  thy  polished  brow, 

No  emblem  it  of  a  love  like  thine ; 
Tis  the  flower  of  love,  and  thy  heartless  vow 

Has  never  been  breathed  at  feeling's  shrine. 
Thy  soul  has  ne'er  burned  with  love's  ardent  flame, 

Thy  smiles  they  are  false,  thy  words  like  the  air; 
Thou  wouldst  crush  that  bud  if  another  came ; 

Then  take  it  now,  from  thy  golden  hair. 

"  There  was  a  pause  of  a  few  moments,  when  my  sister 
spoke — 


56  UNCLE    WALTER'S    STORY. 

"  '  Agnes,'  said  she,  '  it  is  impossible  that  Walter  should 
see  you  daily,  and  remain  indifferent  toward  you.  In  a 
short  time  he  will  forget  this  silly  Swedish  romance.  You 
know  his  tastes  and  his  prejudices,  and  can  easily  flatter 
the  one,  and  be  careful  not  to  offend  the  other.' 

" '  Margaret,  I  have  no  doubt  that  Christine  received 
the  attentions  of  Carl  before  she  saw  your  brother.  Trust 
me,  she  was  only  coquetting  with  Walter,  and  it  would  not 
surprise  me  to  hear  that  she  had  married  her  first  ad- 
mirer.' 

"  '  Heaven  grant  she  may  !  Touch  Walter's  pride  and 
you  are  sure  to  conquer  his  passion.  Now,  Aggy,  sing 
me  that  song  you  wrote  when  Walter,  in  a  flight  of  senti- 
mentalism,  once  asked,  '  Do  you  ever  think  of  me  ?' 

"  Agnes  again  played  an  accompaniment  as  she  sang — 

What!  think  of  thee!     Yes,  in  the  morn's  early  hour, 

Thou  art  first  in  my  memory's  sight ; 
I  tremble  and  wonder  that  day  has  no  power 

O'er  the  visions  that  haunt  me  by  night. 

"What!  think  of  thee!     Yes,  when  amid  the  gay  throng. 

When  the  lovely  and  happy  are  near, 
I  sigh  for  thy  glance,  and  in  sadness  I  long 

For  thine  accents  to  fall  on  mine  ear. 

What !  think  of  thee !     Yes,  every  moment  I  live, 

Be  it  joyous  or  saddening  to  me, 
I  see  thee,  I  hear  thee ;  may  heaven  forgive 

If  too  often  I  think  upon  thee. 

"  The  song  ceased.  The  girls  left  the  room  together,  tt ,  1 
I  was  once  more  alone.  The  doubts  of  Christine's  con- 
stancy, suggested  by  Agnes,  were  insupportable  ;  while  the 


CHRISTINE.  57 

knowledge  of  Agnes's  love  for  me  bewildered  and  left  me 
undecided  how  to  act. 

"  At  first  I  thought  to  tell  my  sister  that  I  had  overheard 
their  conversation,  but  this  would  have  been  embarrassing 
to  us  all,  so  I  kept  the  secret  in  my  own  breast,  and  met 
her  and  Agnes  with  my  usual  demeanor. 

"  A  twelvemonth  had  passed  since  my  return  home,  and 
during  that  time  I  had  received  but  one  letter  from  Chris- 
tine. I  almost  believed  that  she  had  forgotten  me,  and 
pride  urged  that  I  should  forget  her.  Alas,  how  hard  it 
is  to  unwind  the  tendrils  of  love  from  around  the  heart ; 
to  cast  from  us  the  passion  we  have  nursed  until  its  root 
is  interwoven  with  the  fibres  of  our  life  !  Slowly,  slowly, 
we  part  each  delicate  tendril,  pausing  ever,  and  hoping  that 
one  may  still  be  left !  While  there  remains  a  vestige  of 
hope,  though  it  be  light  as  the  gossamer  which  floats  upon 
the  breeze,  unsubstantial  as  the  palace  shadowed  in  the 
clowds,  slowl}*,  slowly,  fibre  after  fibre  is  loosened,  and  the 
torture  of  the  soul  prolonged. 

"  I  wrote  again.  Six  months  elapsed  and  brought  no 
answer.  Then  came  the  harrowing  thought  that  Christine 
was  dead !  All  this  time  I  was  compelled  to  remain  at 
home,  owing  to  a  protracted  lawsuit,  arising  out  of  some 
business  unsettled  at  my  father's  death. 

"  I  now  determined  on  writing  to  Christine's  uncle  in 
Stockholm,  telling  him  of  my  love  for  his  niece,  and  of  the 
misery  I  endured  from  her  continued  silence.  The  pris- 
oner, notching  the  dismal  days  and  nights  on  the  stick  in 
his  lonely  cell,  could  not  have  felt  the  time  drag  more  wear- 
ily than  did  I,  while  waiting  an  answer  to  my  letter.  At 
last  it  came.  It  was  from  G-ustave  Bernstein.  Trembling 
with  agitation,  I  ran  my  eye  over  the  sheet  until  it  rested 
3* 


58  UNCLE    WALTER'S    STOKY. 

on  the  name  of  Christine.  At  the  perusal  of  that  one 
paragraph  my  sight  seemed  blasted.  Christine  was  mar- 
ried to  Carl !  It  was  as  if  the  light  had  been  suddenly 
blotted  from  the  sky ;  as  if  the  blackness  of  thick  dark- 
ness had  fallen  upon  me.  I  sat  long  in  a  state  of  stupor, 
unable  to  read  more.  When  I  did,  I  learned  that  Chris- 
tine, in  compliance  with  the  earnest  wish  of  her  father,  had 
consented  to  marry  his  favorite,  and  that,  at  the  request  of 
the  bride,  whose  health  was  delicate,  the  marriage  had 
been  a  private  one.  Here,  then,  was  the  end  of  my  hopes. 
The  last  tendril  was  broken  !  the  last  fibre  rooted  out ! 
I  thought  so  then,  but  who  can  fathom  the  depths  of  the 
human  heart  ? 

"  Calling  all  my  pride  to  my  aid,  I  determined  on  for- 
getting the  woman  who  could  thus  forget  herself.  I  was 
ashamed  of  the  wretchedness  I  had  suffered  on  her  account, 
unworthy  as  I  deemed  her  of  my  love.  But  the  arrow 
had  not  been  withdrawn ;  it  still  rankled,  though  for  a 
while  its  point  was  dulled  against  the  shield  of  pride. 

"  I  now  tried  to  think  that  all  my  preconceived  ideas  of 
woman's  truthfulness  and  loveliness  of  character  were  over- 
drawn ;  that  those  ideas  were  merely  the  fruits  of  a  too 
romantic  imagination. 

"  But,  if  one  woman  had  deceived  me,  another  loved  me. 
I  had  heard  ft  from  her  own  lips,  when  she  knew  not  that 
I  was  by  to  listen.  And  now  I  tried  to  persuade  myself 
that  it  was  a  false  delicacy  which  had  so  shocked  me  on 
hearing  Agnes's  avowal.  With  this  tempest  of  passion  rag- 
ing within  aifl  dethroning  reason,  I  talked  to  Agnes  of  love. 
Of  love!  'Kbit  desecration  in  such  a  mad,  heartless  use 
of  that  holy  word.  My  sister's  delight  knew  no  bounds. 
Agnes  openly  showed  her  preference  for  me,  at  the  risk, 


CHRISTINE.  59 

very  frequently,  of  driving  me  from  her ;  but  of  this  rae 
knew  nothing.  Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  vortex,  Agues 
and  I  were  to  be  married  !  Sure  that  I  was  about  to  seal 
my  misery,  I  was  yet  reckless.  I  thought  by  that  deed 
to  prove  to  my  heart  that  I  had  forgotten  Christine ! 

"  Preparations  were  making  for  our  approaching  nup- 
tials. Friends  congratulated  us,  and  Agnes  was  more  bril- 
liantly beautiful  than  ever.  One  morning  I  was  sitting 
beside  my  affianced,  discussing  with  apparent  interest,  but 
far-away  thoughts,  the  very  important  question  whether 
there  should  be  two  bridesmaids  or  three.  For  my  own 
part,  I  cared  but  little  whether  there  were  any  at  all,  but, 
as  usual,  I  yielded  the  point  to  Agnes,  who  had  previously 
decided  on  three.  While  we  were  yet  talking,  my  servant 
handed  me  a  package  which  had  just  been  left  for  me. 
My  hand  shook  nervously  when,  on  taking  it,  I  recognized 
the  writing  of  Gustave  Bernstein.  At  that  moment  my 
sister  entered,  and  I  left  Agnes  and  her  together,  while, 
with  a  vague  presentiment  of  evil,  I  retired  to  my  room. 
A  year  had  passed  since  I  received  the  letter  announcing 
Christine's  marriage,  and  I  supposed  that  all  correspond- 
ence with  my  Swedish  friends  had  forever  ceased.  What 
then  could  be  the  import  of  these  letters  ?  for  it  was  evi- 
dent that  several  were  enclosed  in  the  envelope. 

"  Impatiently,  yet  fearingly,  I  broke  the  seal.  The  Qrst 
I  opened  was  from  Mr.  Bernstein.  Christine  was  dead ! 
Oh,  how  my  old  fondness  welled  up  within  my  heart,  and 
would  not  be  kept  back.  Christine  was  dead  !  The  day 
that  I  had  seen  her  in  her  virgin  purity,  renewing  her  bap- 
tismal vows  at  the  altar — the  blessed  hours  we  had  spent 
together  in  the  quiet  parsonage — the  flowers  we  had  gath- 
ered an  the  hills— th.p  sqngs  she  had  su.ng  to  me  at  even- 


60  UNCLE    WALTER'S    STORY. 

tide — the  books  we  had  read  in  the  quaint  old  library — 
the  tears  she  shed  at  parting — the  blessing — the  farewell ! 
There  they  were  as  things  of  yesterday ;  there  they  were, 
remembered — worshipped — filling  my  heart  to  overflowing. 
There  was  no  thought  of  her  estrangement,  no  proud  re- 
pelling of  my  newly-awakened  tenderness  ;  ah  no,  Chris- 
tine was  dead ! 

"  I  know  not  what  length  of  time  elapsed  before  I  again 
examined  the  package.  When  I  did  so,  I  found  that  sev- 
eral of  the  letters  were  my  own  ;  they  were  those  I  had 
sent  to  Christine.  I  took  up  another.  How  nervously  did 
I  press  it  to  my  lips.  Her  hand  had  traced  these  charac- 
ters— the  hand  which  had  been  clasped  in  mine — the  hand 
which  was  cold  in  death — Christine's  hand  had  written  it ! 
Did  I  read  aright  ?  Again  and  again  my  eye  wandered 
over  the  lines. 

"  '  I  am  dying,  Walter,  and  I  trust  it  is  not  wrong  now 
to  tell  you  how  I  have  sorrowed  over  the  past.  Oh,  Wal- 
ter, why  did  you  conceal  aught  from  me — from  me,  who 
opened  to  you  the  inmost  thoughts  of  my  soul  ?  Had  you 
told  me  all  at  first,  what  a  world  of  misery  might  have 
been  spared  me  !  Ah  !  I  would  not  have  so  wept  over  the 
promise  to  be  yours  in  time  and  eternity.  Honor  would 
have  forbidden  that  promise  to  be  made.  When  I  first 
learned  that  your  plighted  troth  belonged  to  another,  the 
tidings  fell  like  an  ice-bolt  on  my  heart.  And  when  I  was 
conjured,  even  by  the  love  I  bore  you,  to  take  pity  on  an- 
other, whose  love  was  strong  as  mine — one  whom  you  were 
bound  by  solemn  engagements  to  make  your  wife — then, 
though  my  life-cord  had  broken  in  the  struggle,  I  resolved 
to  cast  you  from  me,  not  in  anger,  not  in  disdain,  but  in 
pity  and  in  grief.  You  but  saw  the  weaker,  the  more  yield- 


CHRISTINE.  61 

ing  part  of  my  nature ;  you  knew  not,  Walter,  how  I  could 
nerve  myself  for  a  high  task.  You  knew  not  how  a  wo- 
man, frail  in  body,  could  be  strong  in  soul.  Carefully  I 
banished  every  fond  thought  of  you  which  sprung  unbidden 
in  my  breast.  Were  you  not  the  betrothed  of  another  ? 
And  would  it  not  have  been  sinful  longer  to  regard  you 
with  love  ?  My  life  was  henceforth  to  be  devoted  to  my 
father's  happiness.  You  knew  how  earnestly  he  wished 
me  to  marry  Carl.  When  I  had  schooled  my  heart  to 
think  of  you  as  the  husband  of  the  woman  whose  love  you 
had  first  won,  I  yielded  to  my  father's  wishes  ;  not  lightly, 
not  from  motives  of  pique  toward  you,  but  to  soothe  the 
last  moments  of  my  parent's  life ;  to  see  him  die  happy  in 
the  thought  that  he  left  me  to  the  protection  of  his  beloved 
ward.  And  Carl  knew  all,  all,  and  yet,  with  a  love  sur- 
passing knowledge,  he  made  me  his  wife. 

<; '  And  now  was  my  soul  strengthened  and  purified  by 
close  communion  with  his.  To  assist  him  in  his  labors,  to 
cheer  him  in  his  solitude,  to  look  with  him  for  the  '  rest 
which  remaineth  for  the  people  of  God,'  all  these  were 
sweet  to  me.  Honorable  motives,  dutiful  actions,  brought 
their  sure  reward.  My  father's  spirit  could  look  approv- 
ingly upon  his  child. 

"  '  In  the  midst  of  this  life  of  usefulness,  Carl  was  call- 
ed suddenly  away.  The  blow  stunned  me,  but  I  knew 
that  it  came  from  a  friendly  hand.  My  heart  still  needed 
the  baptism  of  suffering  to  wash  it  for  heaven. 

" '  And  now  that  I  am  dying,  Walter,  I  wish  you  to 
know  the  cause  of  my  silence ;  the  reason  why  I  did  not 
keep  my  promise.  I  wish  no  blot  to  rest  on  my  memory 
when  I  am  gone.  I  have  thought,  too — vainly  perhaps — 
that  you  might  be  happier  if  you  knew  no  feeling  of 


52  UNCLE    WALTER'S    STORY. 

unkindness   toward  you  had  ever  been  harbored  in  my 
breast. 

"  '  Your  letters,  and  the  letters  of  her  who  is  now  your 
wife,  you  will  receive  with  this.  I  have  prayed  for  you 
both.  Walter,  that  grace  and  strength  might  be  given  to 
assist  you  in  bearing  one  another's  burdens  in  tlie  journey 
of  life.  I  have  prayed  for  you  and  for  myself,  that  \ye 
might  be  permitted  to  enter  the  mansions  prepared  for 
the  loved  of  the  Father.  Will  you  not  pray  for  it,  too, 
Walter  ?  Ah,  in  the  strange  and  sad  vicissitudes  of  daily 
life,  in  the  awful  hour  of  approaching  dissolution,  what  can 
we  frail  creatures  do  but  pray  ?  Farewell,  Walter,  and 
may  your  last  moments  be  tranquil  as  those  of 

CHRISTINE.' 

"  I  was  bewildered ;  rny  brain  became  confused,  and  I 
lost  all  consciousness  when  I  had  read  Christine's  letter. 
How  long  I  remained  in  this  state  of  stupor  I  know  not, 
but  I  was  aroused  by  a  knocking  at  the  door.  It  was  my 
sister.  She  told  me  that  Agnes  had  returned  home,  won- 
dering at  my  strange  conduct  in  not  coming  back  to  them, 
after  my  abrupt  departure.  Agnes  !  she.  had  been  totally 
forgotten.  I  told  my  sister  that  I  was  not  well,  and 
would  not  leave  my  room  until  morning.  When  she  had 
gone,  I  once  more  read  the  mournful  breathings  which 
death  had  wrung  from  the  heart  of  her  I  loved.  I  turned 
from  them  to  look  at  that  which  had  caused  my  misery. 
Some  demon  had  been  envious  of  my  happiness.  Tossing 
aside  my  own  letters,  I  took  up  one,  the  handwriting  of 
which  seemed  familiar  to  me,  but  at  the  instant  I  could 
not  recollect  where  I  had  seen  it  before.  As  I  read,  light 
dawned  upon  me.  It  had  been  written  by  Agnes !  Slie 
told  of  my  engagement  to  her  previous  to  my  going  abroad, 


CHRISTINE.  63 

and  with  all  the  eloquent  pleadings  she  could  so  well  em- 
ploy, begged  Christine  not  to  answer  my  letters.  Appeal- 
ing to  her  honor,  her  generosity,  her  womanly  tenderness, 
she  wove  a  tissue  of  falsehoods  so  artfully  together  that  no 
one,  pure  minded  as  Christine,  could  dream  of  their  being 
untrue.  And  it  was  this  woman,  so  deceitful,  so  base, 
that  I,  in  my  madness,  was  about  to  make  my  wife  ! 

"  At  an  early  hour  the  next  day  I  called  upon  Agues. 
She  met  me,  radiant  with  smiles,  and  her  dark  eyes  flash- 
ing with  the  consciousness  of  superb  beauty.  I  looked  on 
her  with  abhorrence,  and  a  feeling  akin  to  hate  took  pos- 
session of  my  soul.  She  perceived  rny  disturbed  manner, 
and  began  to  rally  me  on  my  strange  appearance.  For 
some  moments  I  dared  not  trust  myself  to  speak,  lest  in 
my  bitterness  I  should  forget  what  was  due  to  her  sex. 
Extending  my  hand,  I  held  before  her  the  letter  she  had 
written  to  Christine,  and  hoarsely  murmured — 

"  '  Agnes,  do  you  know  this  ?' 

"  As  she  looked  on  it  her  face  became  pale  and  terror- 
stricken,  but  immediately  recovering  herself,  she  answer- 
ed— 

"'No!' 

"  '  Agnes,'  said  I,  regarding  her  with  a  fixed  and  pene- 
trating look,  '  why  deny  what  your  conscience  tells  you  is 
true  ?  Wretched  woman,  how  could  you  thus  work  the 
misery  of  one  who  was  as  far  above  you,  as  the  angels  are 
above  us  ?' 

"  Again  Agnes  attempted  a  denial,  in  a  louder  and  firm- 
er tone  than  before. 

"  '  Add  not  falsehood  to  falsehood,'  I  exclaimed,  '  heap 
not  infamy  on  infamy.  From  this  moment  we  are  strang- 
ers.' 


64  UNCLE    WALTER'S    STORY. 

" '  Walter  Drayton,  you  dare  not  now  go  back ;  I  say 
you  dare  not !' 

"  '  I  dare,  and  I  will.  No  power  on  earth  could  make 
me  call  you  wife.  Tell  what  you  please  about  the  break- 
ing of  our  engagement,  I  shall  never  stoop  to  contradict  it.' 

"  For  a  moment  Agnes  quailed  beneath  my  just  resent- 
ment; then,  giving  way  to  her  excited  feelings,  she  tower- 
ed a  very  Medea  in  her  wrath.  I  left  her,  and  in  a  month 
afterward  was  on  my  way  to  Europe. 

"  I  visited  Gustave  Bernstein,  and  from  him  obtained 
Christine's  miniature.  I  wept  at  her  grave — wept  that 
she  had  died  without  knowing  the  truth.  For  many  years 
I  was  a  wanderer.  On  my  return  I  learned  that  Agnes 
was  married.  Her  husband  was  ugly,  old,  decrepit,  but 
possessed  of  immense  wealth.  His  wife  despised  him,  and 
he  feared  her.  Leading  a  life  of  splendid  misery,  unloved 
and  unloving,  Agnes  was  reaping  the  bitter  fruits  of  her 
treachery  and  deceit. 

"  I  made  my  home  with  my  youngest  sister,  and  in  her 
happy  domestic  circle  learned  to  prize  the  blessings  which 
had  been  spared  me.  But  though,  in  seeking  to  promote 
the  happiness  of  others,  I  have  found  peace  for  myself; 
though  five  and  twenty  years  have  elapsed  since  I  opened 
that  package,  never  can  I  forget  my  utter  desolation  of 
heart  when  I  learned  that  Christine  was  dead." 


Dear  uncle  Walter,  how  he  had  suffered  and  sorrowed, 
and  how  bravely  he  had  borne  himself  under  his  secret 
grief !  My  warm  tears  fell  fast  upon  his  hand  as  I  pressed 
it  to  my  lips.  Parting  my  hair  on  my  forehead,  he  bent 
and  kissed  me  without  speaking ;  then  carefully  gathering 
his  treasures,  he  left  me  alone  to  think  again  and  again  ot 
Uncle  Walter's  tale  of  love. 


Cattrarhu 


CHAPTER  I. 

HOURS  OF  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOW. 

IN  the  parlor  of  a  neat  but  unpretending  dwelling,  in  one 
of  the  crowded  streets  of  New  York,  was  assembled 
the  family  of  Mr.  Clayton.  It  was  a  pleasant,  bright 
morning  in  September,  and  the  blinds  were  carefully  drawn 
to  exclude  the  sunshine,  which  nevertheless  found  its  way 
through  one  small  aperture,  and  the  golden  dust  danced 
gaily  in  its  light.  A  lovely  little  girl  was  looking  intently 
upon  the  sunbeam.  Shutting  her  tiny  hand  with  a  tight 
grasp,  she  would  open  it  again,  with  a  look  of  childish  won- 
der and  disappointment. 

"  "What  are  you  doing,  Amy  ?"  said  Mrs.  Clayton,  who 
had  been  for  some  time  watching  the  child. 

"  I  want  to  get  some  of  those  beautiful  things  coming  in 
the  window,  mamma,  but  I  can't  reach  them.  I  wish  papa 
would  try;  he's  so  much  bigger  than  me." 

"  Papa  can't  catch  them,  dear,  any  more  than  little 
Amy,"  said  the  father,  taking  the  child  in  his  arms.  "But 
come,  give  me  one  kiss  ;  I  must  go  away  for  a  whole  day, 
from  my  darling." 


66  CATHAIIINE     CLAYTON, 

"  Will  Catharine  help  me  then  ?" 

"  I  fear  even  Catharine  will  find  it  difficult  to  help  you," 
said  her  father  with  a  smile ;  "  but  you  know  Willie  is 
coming  home  to-day,  and  he  will  try  and  do  everything 
you  want  him  to." 

"  Oh,  yes.  dear  brother  Willie ;  but  you  will  be  home 
to-morrow,  papa  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  love,  and  Amy  will  be  a  good  little  girl  till  pa 
comes  back,  will  she  not  ?"  The  promise  was  given  and 
sealed  with  another  kiss,  and  after  taking  leave  of  his  wife 
and  eldest  daughter,  Mr.  Clayton  rode  from  the  house. 
His  wife  and  children  watched  him  from  the  window  until 
he  was  out  of  sight.  There  was  a  shadow  on  the  mother's 
brow  as  she  stooped  to  kiss  the  forehead  of  little  Amy,  who 
stood  on  a  chair  by  her  side,  and  there  was  a  tear  glisten- 
ing in  Catharine's  eye,  which  she  wiped  away  unperceived, 
as  she  turned  and  said — 

"  It  is  only  for  one  day,  mother;  to-morrow  night  father 
will  be  with  us  again." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  it  is  but  for  one  day,  and  may  God 
watch  over  him  till  his  return."  The  mother  and  daugh- 
ter were  soon  busily  employed  with  their  household  duties, 
while  Amy  kept  her  place  at  the  window,  watching  for  the 
stage  which  was  to  bring  home  her  brother  Willie.  At 
length  a  shout  from  the  little  one,  when  she  saw  it  lumber- 
ing up  the  street,  brought  her  mother  to  her  side,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  Willie  alighted  and  sprung  into  his  mother's 
arms. 

"Where  is  father?"  was  the  first  question  the  boy  asked 
on  looking  around  and  missing  him  from  the  group. 

"He  was  obliged  to  leaye  home  to-day,  my  son,  but  he 
will  be  with  us  to-morrow.  Why  how  you've  grown, 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  67 

Willie !  and  you  look  so  rosy  ;  your  father  will  be  delighted 
to  see  you." 

"  Oh,  mother,  we've  had  capital  fun  !" 

"  Capital  fun  !  I  hope  you  have  not  neglected  your  stud- 
ies ;  your  father  and  I  would  be  greatly  grieved  if  you  had." 

"  Oh  no,  mother  ;  wait  till  I  show  you  iny  medals — but 
after  school,  you  know,  we  used  to  go  down  to  the  river 
with  the  teacher  and  bathe,  and  we  had  such  times  hunting 
for  squirrels  in  the  woods,  and  once  we  killed  a  snake  as 
big  as  my  leg.  Charley  Bogert  and  I  were  together,  and 
Charley  saw  it  first  and  struck  it  on  the  head  with  a  stick, 
and  oh,  mother,  if  you  had  seen  it  stand  strait  up  and  hiss, 
I  guess  you'd  have  been  frightened  !" 

"I  didn't  know  snakes  had  legs  to  stand  on,  Willie," 
said  Amy,  who  was  listening  earnestly  to  the  story. 

"  Well,  neither  have  they,  Amy  ;  but  I  mean  that  he 
reared  himself  right  up  on  end,  and  then  I  flung  a  stick  at 
him,  and  he  fell  down,  and  Charley  crept  behind  him  and 
gave  him  another  hit  on  the  head,  and  then  I  got  a  big 
stone,  and  we  soon  killed  him.  Oh,  we  had  capital  fun !" 

"  Come  with  me,  brother,  come,"  said  Amy,  "  we  have 
another  canary  bird,  and  oh,  it's  one  of  the  sweetest  sing- 
ers, and  we  call  it  Willie.  Come  and  hear  it;"  and  the 
little  one  took  her  brother  by  the  hand  and  led  him  away. 

The  day  passed  quickly,  and  before  retiring  for  the  night, 
Mrs.  Clayton  knelt  with  her  children  and  asked  the  pro- 
tection of  that  all-merciful  One,  who  never  slumbers  nor 
sleeps.  She  asked  it  for  the  beloved  partner  who  shared 
her  every  thought ;  for  the  children  who  were  dear  as  the 
life-blood  that  warmed  her  heart ;  for  herself,  and  for  all 
God's  creatures,  and  she  quietly  slept  the  sleep  of  inno- 
cence and  peace. 


68 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 


"  When  will  father  be  home  ?"  asked  Willie  in  the  morn- 
ing; "  I  want  to  see  him  so  much." 

"  He  will  be  here  by  four  o'clock  at  the  farthest,"  said 
his  mother. 

"  Well,  when  I  see  him  coming  I  shall  go  and  hide  be- 
hind the  parlor  door,  and  after  he  has  kissed  you  all  and 
sits  down  in  his  chair,  I'll  steal  softly  behind  him  and  put 
my  hands  over  his  eyes,  and  tell  him  to  guess  who's  there? 
won't  that  be  fun  !  Now  mind  you  don't  tell  him,  Amy." 

"  I  aint  a  tell  tale,"  said  the  little  one,  pouting  her 
pretty  lip. 

"  I  know  you're  not,  Amy,  but  you'll  be  so  glad  you 
might  forget  and  tell  father ;  now  I  want  to  surprise  him. 
It  will  be  such  capital  fun." 

Long  before  four  o'clock,  Amy  and  her  brother  were 
stationed  at  the  window,  where  they  were  frequently  joined 
by  their  mother  and  sister.  Five,  six  o'clock  came,  but 
the  father  had  not  returned.  Catharine  was  busying  her- 
self in  arranging  the  tea-table. 

"  Look,  mother,  what  fine,  light  rusk,  you  know  father 
is  so  fond  of  them,  and  these  preserved  strawberries,  they 
are  his  favorite  fruit.  Now  Amy,  don't  forget  to  hand 
father  his  slippers,  he  always  likes  you  to  do  it." 

"  And  what  am  I  to  do  ?"  said  Willie,  who  thought  he 
was  slighted  in  having  no  particular  task  assigned  him. 

"  Oh,  you  are  to  stand  behind  the  door,"  said  Catharine, 
laughing,  "and  to  put  your  hands  over  father's  eyes." 

"  But  I  want  to  do  something  more  than  that,  and  if  I 
can't  do  anything  else,  I  will  set  his  chair  at  the  table, 
and  get  his  light  coat  for  him,  and  have  the  newspaper 
ready." 

During  this  conversation  between    the  children,  Mrs. 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  69 

Clayton  was  at  the  window,  straining  her  eyes  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her  husband.  It  was  nearly  seven  o'clock,  and 
the  dark  evening  shadows  were  fast  gathering  on  the 
horizon. 

One  by  one  they  rose,  and  mingled,  and  came  trooping 
up  the  sky,  like  spectres  from  the  spirit-land.  Fainter  and 
fainter  grew  the  daylight,  darker  and  deeper  hung  the  shad- 
ows, till  the  whole  heavens  were  shrouded  in  one  impene- 
trable pall. 

The  children  drew  close  to  the  side  of  their  mother — 
little  Amy  climbed  upon  her  knee,  and  nestled  in  her 
bosom.  "  How  dark  it  is,  mother  ;  oh  why  don't  father 
come  ?" 

The  rain,  which  had  been  rapidly  gathering,  now  fell  in 
torrents,  and  the  thunder  and  lightning  became  so  appall- 
ing, that  the  mother  and  her  children  left  the  window,  and 
the  shutters  were  closed  upon  the  storm. 

It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  the  tea  things  still  remained  un- 
touched upon  the  table.  Mrs.  Clayton  strove  to  conceal 
her  anxiety,  while  her  prayers  were  silently  ascending  to 
the  Almighty,  for  the  safety  of  her  husband.  All  at  once 
the  whole  group  started.  A  horse  was  heard  approaching 
the  house,  and  Willie  flew  to  open  the  door,  wholly  forget- 
ful of  the  little  stratagem  he  had  planned  to  surprise  his 
father.  Ou  the  side- walk  were  two  men  bearing  a  litter, 
while  a  third  was  holding  a  horse  in  the  street.  Mrs. 
Clayton's  face  turned  deadly  pale,  and  her  heart  died 
within  her ;  she  could  ask  no  questions. 

Slowly  the  men  entered  the  doorway,  and  gently  placed 
their  burdea  in  the  hall.  Willie  rushed  toward  it  and 
raised  the  cover — "  Father  is  dead !  father  is  dead  I1' 
shrieked  he  in  agony  and  terror. 


7U  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

"  Willie,  Willie,"  said  Catharine,  laying  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  "  dear  Willie,  think  of  mother."  But  the  poor 
boy  was  nearly  frantic  with  grief,  and  Amy  joined  her  cries 
with  his,  while  Mrs.  Clayton  stood  in  a  state  of  stupe- 
faction. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,  ma'm,"  said  one  of  the  men,  draw- 
ing the  sleeve  of  his  coat  across  his  eyes,  "  but  it  can't  be 
helped;  accidents  will  happen." 

The  wounded  man  groaned.  In  an  instant  his  wife  was 
at  his  side.  "  Oh,  William  !  William!  what  a  return  is 
this  !" 

"  I  fear  it  is  all  over,  Mary ;  but  God's  will  be  done," 
faintly  articulated  the  sufferer,  and  then  relapsed  into  in- 
sensibility. 

"  The  doctor  will  soon  be  here,  ma'm,"  said  one  of  the 
men  ;  "  Matthew  Green,  that  brought  home  the  gentleman's 
horse,  stopped  and  told  him  of  the  accident." 

In  a  few  moments  the  surgeon  arrived,  and  after  exam- 
ining the  wouads,  shook  his  head,  and  by  his  manner  alone, 
crushed  the  last  spark  of  hope  that  lingered  in  the  wife's 
bosom.  Mrs.  Clayton  was  a  woman  of  delicate  frame  and 
exquisite  sensibilities,  yet  possessing  withal  uncommon  en- 
ergy of  character.  Now  that  she  had  learned  the  worst, 
she  asked  God  for  strength,  and  sought  to  nerve  herself  for 
the  hour  of  trial. 

Mr.  Clayton  had  been  detained  some  hours  longer  than 
he  expected  to  be,  and  when  within  a  few  miles  of  home 
his  horse  had  been  startled  by  the  lightning,  and  set  off  at 
full  speed.  Mr.  Clayton  was  thrown  from  the  saddle,  and 
one  of  his  feet  being  entangled  in  the  stirrup,  he  was 
dragged  along  the  road,  his  body  bruised  and  torn,  and  his 
head  mangled  in  a  shocking  manner.  The  infuriated  ani- 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  71 

mill  was  finally  stopped  by  a  man  who  lived  in  Mr.  Clay- 
tou's  neighborhood,  and  he,  procuring  the  assistance  of 
others,  bad  the  unfortunate  man  conveyed  to  his  home. 

Another  pleasant,  bright  morning  broke  in  beauty  on  the 
ea:th;  another  sunbeam  stole  through  the  closely  drawn 
shatter,  but  they  were  all  unheeded,  for  William  Clayton's 
wife  was  a  widow,  and  his  children  fatherless.  A  dark 
shadow  had  settled  on  the  once  sunny  home. 

v/4/^A-*^ 

I     3 


CHAPTER  II. 

GLIMPSES     OF     THE     PAST. 

ABOUT  eighteen  years  before  the  events  already  related, 
William  Clayton  had  commenced  practice  as  an  attor- 
ney and  counsellor  at  law.  His  father,  a  man  of  mod- 
erate income,  had  expended  the  greater  part  of  it  on  the 
education  of  his  son,  and  was  rewarded  by  seeing  him  win 
the  highest  honors  of  his  class.  Near  where  young  Clay- 
ton resided  dwelt  the  widow  Stewart,  and  her  only  child, 
Mary,  a  girl  of  nineteen.  Mrs.  Stewart  had  lost  her  hus- 
band early  in  life,  and  her  small  annuity  had  been  eked  out 
by  the  aid  of  her  needle.  Mary  was  her  idol,  her  all,  and 
to  maintain  and  educate  her  child  in  such  a  manner  as  her 
father  would  have  wished,  was  the  widow's  constant  and 
uij tiring  aim.  And  well  the  gentle  girl  repaid  her  moth- 
er's love.  A  diligent  and  apt  scholar,  Mary  won  the  hearts 
of  her  teachers,  and  when  at  last  Mrs.  Stewart  proposed 
taking  her  daughter  from  school,  as  she  was  unable  any 
longer  to  bear  the  expense  of  her  education,  the  principal 


72  CATHARINE      CLAYTON. 

begged  that  Mary  might  remain,  saying  that  her  services 
would  be  a  sufficient  compensation  for  the  instruction  she 
would  receive  in  the  higher  branches.  To  this  proposal 
her  mother  joyfully  acceded,  and  soon  had  the  gratifi- 
cation of  seeing  Mary  fill  the  place  of  assistant  teacher,  with 
a  salary  which  added  considerably  to  their  limited  income. 

Young  Clayton  had  met  Mary  Stewart  at  the  house  of 
a  mutual  friend,  and  the  casual  acquaintance  soon  ripened 
into  an  intimacy  which  led  him  often  to  the  widow's  dwell- 
ing. When  at  length  assured  of  Mary's  love,  he  asked 
her  mother's  consent  to  their  union ;  Mrs.  Stewart  frankly 
told  him  "  She  would  commit  her  daughter's  happiness  to 
his  keeping,  provided  there  was  no  opposition  offered  by 
his  father." 

At  first  the  old  gentleman  demurred ;  he  persisted  "  that 
his  son  was  too  young  to  think  of  matrimony.  Miss 
Stewart,  though  a  very  amiable  young  lady  from  all  he  had 
heard  of  her,  was  without  fortune ;  not  that  he  cared  for 
it," — and  here  the  old  gentleman  slightly  hesitated — "  but 
he  thought  it  better  they  should  have  something  to  begin 
the  world  with." 

"  Dear  father,  how  often  have  I  heard  you  say  that  you 
had  but  a  few  hundred  dollars  when  my  mother  and  you 
were  married,  and  in  my  whole  life  I  never  heard  either 
of  you  regret  your  want  of  fortune." 

"  True,  true,  but  there  are  few  women  in  the  world  like 
your  mother.  She  was  always  happy  at  home,  and  no  mat- 
tar  how  fretted  or  anxious  I  might  be  through  the  day,  I 
was  always  sure  of  a  loving  word  and  a  pleasant  smile  in 
the  evening.  When  I  returned  wearied  and  exhausted 
with  the  cares  of  business,  she  never  pestered  me  to  take 
her  to  some  place  of  public  amusement.  I  never  came 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  73 

home  and  found  the  house  in  disorder,  and  her  away  at  a 
revival-meeting,  or  running  after  some  popular  preacher : 
yet  she  was  a  woman  of  deep  piety,  and  showed  it  by  do- 
ing her  duty  in  that  state  of  life  into  which  it  had  pleased 
God  to  call  her.  No,  no ;  there  are  few  women  like  her ; 
in  the  twenty  years  we  lived  together,  I  don't  think  there 
was  an  unkind  feeling  between  us." 

"  But,  dear  father,  Miss  Stewart  may  be  all  that  my 
mother  was." 

"  I  doubt  it ;  girls  are  brought  up  very  differently  now- 
a-days ;  they  dance,  they  sing,  learn  to  play  on  the  piano, 
dress,  visit  and  coquette ;  Heaven  help  the  man  of  mod- 
erate means  who  gets  one  of  them  for  a  wife." 

''  You  forget,  father,  that  Mary  has  not  been  brought  up 
in  such  a  manner;  her  mother,  you  know—" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  Mrs.  Stewart  is  a  prudent  woman,  but 
what  warrant  have  we  that  her  daughter  will  be  the  same  ?" 

"  Dear  father,  if  you  but  knew  Mary.  Why  will  you 
not  go  with  me  and  see  for  yourself  whether  she  is  not 
worthy  to  be  your  daughter  ?" 

"  Certainly,  if  I  saw  with  your  eyes  she  would  be  most 
worthy  ;  but  it  is  no  way  to  learn  a  woman's  character  by 
visiting  her  when  she  is  prepared  to  receive  you ;  I  want  to 
drop  in  at  any  time,  and  judge  what  she  is  at  home.  As 
I  said  before,  if  you  were  wealthy  and  could  afford  to  in- 
dulge your  wife  in  extravagance,  it  would  be  well  enough  ; 
but  you  are  not,  so  take  my  ad  vice  and  give  up  the  project." 

"  I  must  speak  seriously  on  this  matter;  give  it  up  I 
cannot ;  to  marry  without  your  consent  I  do  not  wish, 
neither  would  Mary,  nor  her  mother,  consent  to  anything 
of  the  kind." 

"  What's  that  1  She  would  not  run  away,  think  you •?" 
4 


74  CATHARINE      CLAYTON. 

"  No,  father,  not  even  were  I  to  urge  it;  Mary  has  too 
mrch  firmness  of  principle  wilfully  to  violate  a  known  duty, 
that  of  obedience  to  parents." 

"  So,  so,  well,  she  may  be  a  good  girl  after  all ;  that  is 
just  like  your  mother ;  a  good  daughter  will  make  a  good 
wife,  but  I've  no  great  opinion  of  the  woman  who  proves 
her  love  for  a  man  by  forgetting  to  honor  her  father  and 
mother.  There's  a  great  deal  of  false  sentiment  abroad 
in  the  world  about  such  matters.  When  a  girl  runs  away, 
and  marries  a  man  in  opposition  to  the  wishes  of  her  pa- 
rents, it  is  usual  for  people  to  talk  of  the  sacrifices  she 
has  made,  and  the  strength  of  her  affection  for  her  lover. 
Now  the  matter  does  not  strike  me  in  this  light;  on  the 
contrary.  I  conceive  it  to  be  a  most  selfish  and  unfeeling 
act.  The  grief  of  a  mother,  who  has  hung  over  her  cra- 
dle, nurtured  her  in  her  bosom,  watched  by  her  sick  pillow, 
and  borne  with  all  her  childish  waywardness;  and  the 
disappointment  of  a  father,  who  may  have  garnered  his 
hopes  of  happiness  in  his  child's  obedience,  are  all  flung 
to  the  winds ;  self-denial  is  too  painful  a  task,  and  her  own 
gratification  is  all  the  lady  thinks  about.  And  the  man 
who  could  urge  a  woman  to  such  a  course,  if  his  wife  af- 
terward carries  out  the  lessons  of  disobedience  and  de- 
ception which  he  by  that  one  act  has  taught  her,  and  prac- 
tice them  upon  himself,  why  should  he  blame  her?  I'd 
like  to  see  this  girl,  who  would  not  run  away  with  you, 
and  will  take  a  walk  there  this  evening." 

William  Clayton  had  gained  his  point ;  he  was  sure  that 
if  his  father  once  became  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Stewart 
and  her  daughter  his  scruples  would  vanish. 

The  event  justified  his  hopes,  and  a  year  saw  Mary  and 
himself  united. 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  75 

Years  rolled  by,  and  many  wondered  that  William  Clay- 
ton did  not  advance  in  the  world.  Other  members  of  the 
legal  profession,  who  had  entered  the  arena  with  himself, 
rose  step  by  step,  built  or  rented  fine  houses,  had  them 
magnificently  furnished,  their  families  dressed  expensively, 
and  were  received  into  fashionable  society,  while  Mr.  Clay- 
ton and  his  wife  were  scarcely  known  out  of  their  small 
but  select  circle  of  personal  friends. 

"  Why  don't  you  dash  out  and  make  more  show?"  said 
a  lady  visitor  who  called  one  day  on  Mrs.  Clayton ;  "  if 
you  always  live  in  this  plain,  quiet  manner,  people  will 
know  nothing  about  you,  and,  depend  upon  it,  unless  you 
make  a  genteel  appearance,  the  world  will  take  little  notice 
of  you." 

"  I  do  not  exactly  know  what  you  mean  by  a  genteel 
appearance,  there  are  so  many  different  standards  of  gen- 
tility, but  I  am  sure  neither  Mr.  Clayton  nor  myself  would 
ever  submit  to  keep  up  &  false  appearance." 

"  Oh,  I  am  as  much  opposed  to  false  appearances  as  any 
one ;  but,  for  instance,  if  you  were  to  take  a  larger  house, 
and  have  it  more  fashionably  furnished,  and  entertain  more, 
you  would  be  more  thought  of,  and  Mr.  Clayton's  practice 
might  be  enlarged;  and  this  I  am  sure  you  could  better 
afford  than  some  others  I  could  name  of  our  acquaint- 
ance." 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  little  moment  to  us  how  others  do, 
we  must  act  as  will  be  most  prudent  for  ourselves.  Mr. 
Clayton  is  not  rich,  nor  will  he  ever  be.  When  he  com- 
menced practice  at  the  bar,  it  was  with  the  firm  determina- 
tion never  to  undertake  any  case  in  which  he  was  not  fully 
convinced  of  his  client's  right  to  justice.  He  could  not 
plead  the  cause  of  a  bold,  bad  man,  and,  by  some  trifling 


70  CATHARINE      CLAYTON. 

legal  technicality,  gain  his  suit,  and  '  make  the  worse  ap- 
pear the  better  reason.'  No,  I  thank  God,  his  energies  are 
always  employed  on  the  side  of  right,  in  the  cause  of  the 
widow,  the  orphan,  and  the  destitute,  though  it  must  be 
confessed  these  are  the  persons  who  pay  the  smallest  fees, 
and  very  often  none  at  all." 

"  Bless  me,  what  an  eccentric  man  !  But  don't  Mr. 
Clayton  think  he  owes  a  duty  to  his  family  ?  There  is 
Catharine  will  soon  be  old  enough  to  be  brought  out,  and 
I  can  tell  Mr.  Clayton  he  will  have  her  long  enough  on 
his  hands  if  he  keeps  her  moped  up  in  an  old-fashioned 
house  like  this." 

Mrs.  Clayton  smiled.  "  Certainly,  Mr.  Clayton  knows 
there  is  a  duty  owing  his  family,  but  he  does  not  think 
that  duty  consists  in  obtaining  money  at  the  expense  of  his 
conscience,  and  hoarding  it  up  to  buy  a  husband  for  his 
daughter.  He  is  in  no  hurry  to  part  with  Catharine,  but 
would  rather  she  remainad  under  the  paternal  roof  until 
her  character  was  fully  formed,  and  then  he  would  wish  to 
see  her  the  beloved  and  honored  wife  of  an  estimable  man, 
possessing  habits  of  self-respect  and  self-reliance,  rather 
than  the  fashionable  lady,  whose  husband  was  the  silly  pos- 
sessor of  thousands." 

"  Why,  how  strangely  you  talk,  Mrs.  Clayton  !  I  can't 
believe  you  think  wealth  of  no  value." 

"  I  have  not  said  that  I  thought  it  of  no  value ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  to  be  sought  after  as  a  means  for  supplying 
us  with  much  that  renders  life  desirable ;  and,  above  all, 
as  the  means  under  God  of  benefiting  our  fellow  creatures. 
All  I  wish  to  convey  is,  that  wealth  is  too  much  the  end 
and  aim  of  every  exertion.  The  man  of  business  toils  for 
it,  as  the  galley-slave  at  the  oar,  denying  himself  the  need- 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  77 

fill  time  for  repose  or  recreation  ;  and  too  often  the  endear- 
ments of  home  are  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  Mammon." 

"  O,  that  is  all  very  fine  talk,  but  you  can't  make  your 
way  in  the  world  without  money  ;  for  my  part,  I  hope  Mr. 
Archer  will  drive  business  until  he  has  amassed  something 
handsome." 

"  But  if  your  husband  is  from  morning  till  night  in  his 
counting-room,  and  comes  home  with  his  brain  filled  with 
invoices,  balance-sheets  and  ledgers,  you  lose,  what  appears 
to  me  the  most  valued  and  delightful,  the  society  of  your 
husband,  and  the  leisure  which  might  be  devoted  to  intel- 
lectual enjoyment.  "Would  it  not  be  better  to  live  in  a 
smaller  house,  and  in  plainer  style,  on  a  more  limited  in- 
come, than  to  have  your  husband's  whole  time  given  to  the 
tear  and  wear  of  toiling  for  money  ?" 

"  As  to  my  husband's  society,  that  makes  little  differ 
ence,  for  I  am  generally  out,  or  engaged  with  company, 
when  he  comes  home.  The  closer  he  attends  to  business 
the  better,  for  I  mean  to  ride  in  my  coach  as  well  as  Susan 
Jones,  who  married  Wilson.  You  remember  her,  don't 
you  ?  We  all  went  to  school  together  at  Mrs.  Barclay's. 
Two  years  ago  the  Wilsons  hired  a  house  in  Washington 
Square,  and  I  was  determined  I  would  live  no  longer  in 
White  street.  I  found  out  where  they  were  going  to,  and 
gave  Mr.  Archer  no  peace  until  he  succeeded  in  getting 
one  a  few  doo'rs  from  them ;  so  we  auctioned  off  all  our 
things,  and,  would  you  believe  it  ?  many  of  them  brought 
no  more  than  half  what  was  paid  for  them,  although  they 
were  all  new  the  year  before ;  but  it  couldn't  be  helped. 
Our  new  house  is  furnished  in  the  most  expensive  manner, 
and  next  year  we  will  have  our  carriage.  Mr.  Archer  says 
I  will  ruin  him,  but  I  don't  believe  it,  for  I  know  he  has 


78  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

made  some  good  speculations  lately;  bless  me,  it  is  nearly 
three  o'clock,  and  I  have  a  long  walk  to  take  yet  to  make 
a  call  on  Mrs.  Bishop.  She  is  a  sweet,  fashionable  lady, 
and  I  must  time  my  visits  there  to  a  minute,  her  dearest 
friends  would  not  be  admitted  if  she  were  about  to  dress 
for  dinner.  Good-bye,  my  dear,  what  a  pity  that  you 
don't  visit  in  a  fashionable  circle,"  so  saying,  the  giddy 
Mrs.  Archer  took  her  leave. 

Mrs.  Clayton  could  not  help  smiling  while  she  took  a 
retrospective  view  of  the  past.  Sarah  Grant,  now  Mrs. 
Archer,  was,  in  their  school  days  to  which  she  had  alluded, 
a  pretty  girl,  with  a  great  fondness  for  dress  and  show, 
and  a  large  fund  of  animal  spirits.  At  a  ball  she  attract- 
ed the  attention  of  Mr.  Archer,  a  bachelor  on  the  shady 
side  of  thirty,  who  thought  it  would  be  delightful  to  have 
such  a  young  sprightly  creature  for  a  wife.  "  I  cannot 
bear  a  dull  prosy  woman,"  said  he  one  day  to  a  bachelor 
friend ;  "  I  want  something  to  amuse  me  when  I  return  from 
the  counting-room  ;  and,  besides,  she  is  so  young,  I  can 
train  her  as  I  wish."  And  with  his  head  full  of  plans  for 
his  future  training,  Mr.  Archer,  who  was  neither  remark- 
ably good-looking,  nor  interesting,  but  who  had  the  name  of 
being  a  man  well  to  do  in  the  world,  was  married,  after  a 
short  courtship,  to  the  pretty  Miss  Grant.  The  honey 
moon  was  scarcely  over  when  Mr.  Archer  began  to  feel  he 
had  been  too  precipitate,  his  pretty  young  wife  would  not 
train. 

"  Sarah,  my  dear,  sing  me  that  little  Scotch  ballad  to- 
night ;  you  never  sing  or  play  now  as  you  did  before  wo 
were  married." 

"  Oh,  I'm  tired  to  death  !  I've  been  shopping  and  mak- 
ing calls  to-day,  and,  besides,  you  always  ask  for  such  old- 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  79 

fashioned  ditties ;  I  hate  them  !"  In  a  few  minutes  the 
little  lady  added,  "  I  thought  you  were  coming  home  to 
take  me  to  the  opera  to-night,  and  I  hurried  my  life  al- 
most out  to  get  through  in  time,  and  ordered  a  beautiful 
head-dress  of  silver  tissue  and  marabouts,  which  has  been 
home  this  hour." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  I  thought  you  were  too  much  fatigued 
to  use  the  least  exertion,  even  to  sing  for  me." 

"  Well,  I  am,  but  I  could  go  there.  I  will  wear  my 
velvet  mantilla  thrown  gracefully  about  my  shoulders,  and 
my  new  head  dress ;  that  will  be  delightful !  You  can  get 
ready  in  a  minute,  you  know.  I  bought  myself  a  dozen 
pair  of  white  kid  gloves  this  afternoon ;  yours  were  not 
much  soiled,  and  I  thought  they'd  do  well  enough,  people 
won't  look  so  much  at  your  hands  as  at  mine." 

"I  cannot  go  tonight,  Sarah,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  with 
some  severity  of  tone,  "it  is  too  late  to  procure  tickets; 
and,  besides,  I  am  too  much  fatigued.  You  have  been  out 
every  night  for  the  last  fortnight,  and  you  might,  I  think, 
please  me  this  once." 

"  That  is  always  the  way  when  I  set  my  heart  on  going 
any  place,  I  must  sit  and  mope  here  with  you." 

.  The  lady  pouted,  and  grew  more  sullen  every  moment, 
until  at  last  she  left  the  room.  Mr.  Archer  waited  some 
time  for  her  return,  but  in  what  is  called  "  a  fit  of  sulks  " 
she  had  retired  for  the  night,  and  left  him  to  his  own  re- 
flections. And  these  were  bitter. 

He  had  married  a  wilful,  wayward,  spoiled  girl,  whose 
education  had  been  neglected  to  make  room  for  showy, 
superficial  accomplishments,  who  had  been  brought  up  with 
a  love  for  display  and  extravagance;  who  was  never  hap- 
py but  when  surrounded  by  silly  foplings  ministering  to 


80  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

her  vanity,  and  who  regarded  her  husband  as  the  last  man 
in  the  world  it  was  worth  taking  any  trouble  to  please. 
Like  many  other  men,  who,  when  they  have  reached  the 
meridian  of  life,  think  themselves  far-seeing,  and  suppose 
that  they  cannot  be  deceived  in  their  estimate  of  female 
character,  Mr.  Archer  found  that  he  had  been  short  sighted 
in  the  extreme.  He  had  been  duped  by  an  affectation  of 
child-like  simplicity,  and  amiability  of  manners,  and  he  be- 
gan to  fear  that  he  had  been  loved  for  his  reputed  wealth, 
and  not  for  himself  alone  ;  his  pretty  wife  would  not  train  ! 

One  more  scene  and  we  will  leave  them. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  been  looking  at  a  very  airy  and  con- 
venient house ;  it  is  in  a  pleasant  situation,  and  I  think 
the  rent  will  suit  us :  we  have  been  a  long  time  boarding, 
and  you  know  I  never  liked  it." 

"  What  is  the  rent  of  the  house  ?" 

li  Five  hundred  dollars." 

"  Has  it  marble  mantels  and  folding  doors  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear,  but  it  is  large  and  airy,  though  not  built 
in  modern  style,  and  I  think  it  will  answer  very  well." 

41  I  shan't  go  to  any  house  that  hasn't  marble  mantels 
and  folding-doors,  that  can  be  thrown  open  when  I  have 
company.  There's  Susan  Jones  has  a  beautiful  house, 
with  two  elegant  parlors  with  white  marble  mantels  and 
folding-doors,  and  her  husband  is  no  better  off  than  you 
are." 

It  was  useless  to  remonstrate.  Mr.  Archer  was  weary 
of  boarding,  and  longed  for  the  quiet  of  a  house  of  his 
own.  He  had  often,  while  a  bachelor,  thought  what  lux- 
ury it  would  be  to  go  home,  put  on  his  slippers,  and  seat 
himself,  newspaper  in  hand,  with  a  sort  of  Alexander  Sel- 
kirk feeling,  "  I  am  monarch  of  all  1  survey,"  while  his 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  81 

wife  with  her  own  hands  arranged  the  tea-table,  and  the 
evening  closed  with  a  book,  or  music,  or  a  few  choice 
friends.  Alas  !  these  bachelor  dreamings  of  married  com- 
fort were  dashed  to  the  ground.  His  wife  would  not  play 
for  him  alone,  she  disliked  reading,  her  mind  was  wholly 
uncultivated,  so  that  he  often  blushed  when  she  spoke,  and, 
worse  than  all.  she  would  not  train  !  All  thought  of  the 
old-fashioned  house  was  given  up,  and  one  at  seven  hun- 
dred dollars  a  year  was  rented  in  White  Street,  from 
which,  as  we  have  seen,  the  lady  pestered  her  husband  to 
remove  into  Washington  Square.  Poor  Mr.  Archer  ! 


CHAPTEE  in. 

TIME'S  CHANGES. 

MORE  than  a  year  had  elapsed  since  the  death  of  Mr. 
Clayton,  and  his  widow  still  occupied  the  house  en- 
deared to  her  by  so  many  hallowed  associations.  From 
the  time  of  her  marriage,  Mrs.  Clayton  had  made  it  an 
invariable  rule  to  live  within  their  income,  and  as  the 
state  of  her  husband's  affairs  was  always  known  to  her.  she 
could  regulate  her  household  expenses  accordingly.  If  a 
new  article  of  dress  or  furniture  was  proposed,  the  first 
question  asked  was,  "  Can  we  afford  it  ?  can  we  pay  for  it 
now,  or  run  in  debt,  and  thus  voluntarily  place  ourselves 
in  a  state  of  dependence,  and  lose  our  self-respect  by  so 
doing  ?"  The  answer  invariably  given  was  "  No ;  these 
things  can  neither  make  us  happier,  nor  wiser,  nor  better; 

we  can  wait  for  them." 

4* 


82  CATHARINE      CLAYTON. 

By  this  mode  of  procedure,  Mr.  Clayton  was  enabled  to 
lay  by  a  small  sum  annually,  which  he  invested  in  bank 
stock,  so  that  at  his  death  his  wife  and  children  were  not 
left  dependent  on  the  charity  of  others.  Let  not  the  read- 
er suppose  that  either  Mr.  Clayton  or  his  wife  were  nig- 
gardly, far  from  it.  He  was  a  man  of  the  most  generous 
impulses,  and  his  wife  might  have  obtained  anything  she 
chose  to  ask;  she  was  aware  of  this,  and  was  only  the 
more  careful  not  to  abuse  his  confidence.  If  she  deprived 
herself  of  luxuries,  it  was  because  she  knew  they  would  be 
purchased  by  her  husband's  renewed  toil  and  greater  ex 
ertion,  and  to  this  her  unselfish  nature  was  decidedly  op- 
posed. 

They  had  everything  necessary  for  comfort,  what  should 
they  wish  for  more  ?  If  there  were  times  when  the  reso- 
lution of  both  husband  and  wife  failed,  it  was  when  tempt- 
ed by  a  new  book,  or  an  object  of  charity. 

As  we  have  said,  Mrs.  Clayton  was  still  in  her  old  home, 
faithfully  devoting  herself  to  the  duties  which  had  devolved 
upon  her  at  the  death  of  her  husband.  William  had  just 
returned  to  boarding-school,  after  spending  the  summer 
vacation  with  his  mother  and  sisters.  Amy  was  conning 
over  her  lesson,  and  Mrs.  Clayton  and  Catharine  were  en- 
gaged in  conversation. 

"  Your  term  at  school  has  expired,  and  I  fear,  before 
commencing  another,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  keep  you  at 
home  a  few  days,  Catharine." 

"  Dear  mother,  I  am  so  glad  to  think  you  will  allow  me 
to  stay ;  I  was  afraid  to  ask,  although  I  saw  you  were 
.ooking  pale ;  but  you  are  so  anxious  that  I  should  com- 
plete my  education." 

"  I  am  anxious  indeed,  my  love,  because  it  is  all  the  for- 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  Od 

tune  I  shall  be  able  to  give  you,  and  I  wish  you  to  have 
resources  of  your  own,  on  which  to  rely  in  time  of  need." 

"  Well,  mother,  you  know  I  am  now  in  my  seventeenth 
year,  and  am  only  revising  iny  studies,  which  I  can  do 
equally  as  well  at  home,  with  your  assistance." 

"  I  would  have  preferred  your  remaining  at  school,  but 
just  now  it  cannot  be,"  and  as  Mrs.  Clayton  spoke  she  fell 
fainting  into  the  arms  of  her  daughter. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother,"  cried  little  Amy,  starting  fr-un 
her  seat.  "  Oh,  Catharine,  how  white  she  looks ;  she  will 
die  like  father !" 

"  Hush,  Amy,  run  and  bring  Sally."  The  little  one  flew 
out  of  the  room  and  called  the  maid. 

With  the  assistance  of  Sally.  Mrs.  Clayton  was  laid  upon 
the  sofa,  her  hands  and  face  washed  with  cold  water,  and 
she  slowly  returned  to  consciousness,  but  not  to  health. 
For  nine  weeks  she  lay  prostrated  with  a  low  nervous  fever. 
At  length  she  was  convalescent ;  and  sitting  up,  supported 
by  pillows,  she  watched  with  tearful  eye,  and  thankful  heart, 
her  devoted  Catharine  gliding  about  the  room,  and  arrang- 
ing everything  for  her  comfort. 

During  her  mother's  illness  she  had  never  left  the  room, 
except  to  give  some  necessary  directions,  or  to  prepare 
some  delicacy  with  her  own  hand,  and  she  was  rewarded  by 
seeing  her  beloved  parent  restored  to  health,  and  able  once 
more  to  take  part  in  her  domestic  duties. 

"  You  will  not  ask  me  to  leave  you,  now  that  you  are  well 
again,  dear  mother ;  I  am  afraid  if  I  were  gone  you  might 
exert  yourself  too  much,  and  bring  on  another  attack  of 
that  dangerous  fever." 

"  No,  my  daughter,  your  aid  is  invaluable,  and  I  am 
afraid  that  we  must  soon  devise  some  plan  by  which  we 


84  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

may  be  enabled  to  add  to  our  resources.  The  expenses 
attending  on  my  illness,  you  know,  w*re  so  great  that  our 
interest  was  not  sufficient  to  discharge  them,  and  we  have 
been  obliged  to  break  upon  the  principal ;  this  will  never 
do.  As  for  Amy,  you  and  I  can  educate  her  at  home,  but 
I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  taking  William  from  school. 
It  was  his  father's  wish  that,  after  passing  through  college, 
he  should  study  for  the  ministry,  but  the  expense  to  be  in- 
curred is  so  great  that  I  fear  the  wish  can  never  be  re- 
alized." 

Catharine's  countenance  brightened,  a  happy  thought  had 
occurred  to  her.  ''•  Mother,  if  I  could  obtain  a  situation 
as  governess,  my  salary  might  pay  for  William's  tuition." 

The  mother  kissed  her  daughter's  cheek.  "  You  forget, 
my  dear,  that  I  can  hardly  spare  you  from  home,  and,  be- 
sides, you  are  too  young  to  be  received  as  a  governess.  It 
occurs  to  me  that  we  might  do  something  together,  some- 
thing which  would  not  require  a  separation ;  what  do  you 
think  of  our  making  arrangements  to  take  a  few  pupils  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  better  still,  then  I  can  remain  at  home, 
and  be  always  near  when  you  want  me." 

"  The  grocer  says  this  is  a  bad  bill,  ma'am,"  said  the 
servant  entering  the  room,  and  thereby  interrupting  the 
conversation.  "  I  brought  the  things,  and  he  says  I  can 
pay  him  the  next  time  I  go  there." 

"  Mr.  Briggs  must  be  mistaken,  it  was  a  city  bill  I  gave 
you." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  so  it  is,  but  he  says  the  bank  broke  yester- 
day, and  it's  not  worth  a  cent." 

Mrs.  Clayton  took  the  bill  from  the  girl's  hand  and  ex- 
amined it ;  true  enough,  it  was  the  same  she  had  given 
her.  "  Sally,  step  over  the  way,  and  if  Mr.  Rodgers  is  at 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  85 

home,  ask  him  if  he  will  be  kind  enough  to  come  here  for 
a  few  minutes ;  he  is  a  bank  director,  and  will  know 
whether  the  rumor  is  true  or  false." 

"  He  will  be  here  in  a  minute,  ma'am,"  said  the  girl, 
quickly  returning,  "  I  met  him  on  the  stoop,  he  was  just 
going  down  town,  but  said  he  would  come  here  first." 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Clayton." 

"  Good  morning,  sir.  Can  you  tell  me,  Mr.  Rodgers, 
whether  the  reports  about  the  C —  Bank  are  true  or  not  ? 
I  sent  one  of  the  bills  with  my  servant  this  morning,  but 
it  was  refused,  and  they  told  her  the  bank  was  broke." 

"  I  hope  you  have  but  little  of  that  money,  madam,  for 
it  is  utterly  worthless."  Mrs.  Clayton  turned  pale. 

"  So,  so,"  said  Mr.  Rodgers,  "this  comes  of  not  taking 
my  advice;  I  told  Clayton  not  to  invest  his  money  in  that 
stock,  but  he  would  not  heed  me,  and  now  see  how  it  has 
turned  out." 

"  Mr.  Clayton  did  what  he  thought  was  for  the  best, 
sir." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  do  not  doubt  it,  my  dear  madam,  but  he 
should  not  have  been  so  obstinate.  Good  morning,  la- 
dies," said  the  bank  director,  looking  at  his  watch,  "  it  is 
nearly  ten  o'clock,  and  it  is  time  I  was  on  my  way  to  Wall 
street."  He  suspected  that  the  widow's  all  was  gone,  and 
with  some  forebodings  that  if  he  stayed  longer  she  might 
possibly  want  a  loan,  without  security,  he  hurried  from 
the  house. 

It  was  some  time  before  either  mother  or  daughter  re 
covered,from  the  shock.  They  were  absolutely  penniless  ; 
all  the  "money  they  possessed  being  on  the  one  broken 
bank. 

Catharine  was  the  first  to  rouse  herself — "  Mother,  we 


86  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

must  obtain  money  to  live  upon  until  further  arrangements 
are  made ;  we  might  get  credit  for  a  time,  but  eventually 
the  bills  will  have  to  be  paid." 

"  I  know  it,  my  child,  and  there  is  half  a  year's  re  it 
due;  Mr.  Morris  w,as  out  of  town  at  the  end  of  the  last 
quarter,  and  the  whole  amount  for  six  months  is  now  lying 
in  the  house  utterly  worthless.  God  help  us !" 

"  God  will  help  us,  dear  mother ;  you  have  always  relied 
upon  him,  and  he  will  not  now  desert  us." 

"  True,  my  child,  he  may  see  fit  to  try  us,  to  bring  dis- 
tress upon  us,  but  he  will  not  forsake  us  in  our  extrem- 
ity." 

Mrs.  Clayton  was  not  the  only  one  who  suffered  by  the 
failure  of  the  bank.  There  were  mechanics,  hard-working 
men,  earning  a  subsistence  for  themselves  and  their  fami- 
lies by  the  sweat  of  their  brow — laborers,  toiling  like 
beasts  of  burden  under  the  scorching  summer  sun,  for  a 
scanty  pittance  barely  sufficient  to  provide  them  with  the 
common  necessaries  of  life — women,  overtasked,  emaciated 
women,  plying  with  weary  fingers  their  needles  all  day, 
and  far  into  the  solemn  night,  for  employers  who  W"ro 
battening  on  the  life-current  that  ebbed  from  their  break- 
ing hearts — widows,  who  had  treasured  there  the  portion 
of  their  fatherless  and  helpless  little  ones — on  all  these 
was  brought  ruin  and  desolation.  And  what  was  the 
cause?  Defalcation!  And  were  the  workers  of  this 
great  wo  punished  ?  Were  they  pointed  at  with  scorn  ? 
Were  they  frowned  from  society,  where  they  festered  like 
a  moral  pestilence,  destroying  all  belief  in  integrity  and 
honor?  No !  Society  had  not  the  moral  courage  to  cast 
them  off,  or  to  brand  their  crimes  with  the  dark  names 
they  deserved.  No  !  they  were  courted,  and  caressed,  and 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  87 

their  homes  were  the  abodes  of  luxury,  while  the  cries  of 
their  victims  went  up  into  the  ears  of  the  Lord  of  Sa- 
baoth  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE     GOV  ERN  ES  S. 

ALL  Mrs.  Clayton's  plans  were  frustrated.  The  house 
must  be  given  up.  The  necessary  arrangements  were  made 
as  speedily  as  possible.  Part  of  a  small  tenement  was 
hired,  and  as  much  furniture  as  was  absolutely  necessary 
for  housekeeping  removed  to  it ;  the  rest  had  been  dis- 
posed of  at  auction.  Sally  was  dismissed,  or  rather  forced 
to  go ;  her  attachment  to  her  mistress  being  so  great  that 
she  entreated  to  remain  at  half  her  former  wages.  Even 
that  half  Mrs.  Clayton  found  she  could  not  promise,  and 
the  faithful  creature  was  obliged  to  leave.  There  were  no 
accommodations  in  their  new  home  for  the  reception  of 
pupils,  so  this  favorite  project  was  wholly  abandoned,  and 
they  must  now  resort  to  some  other  means  for  procuring 
a  livelihood. 

Mrs.  Clayton  wished,  if  possible,  to  keep  William  at 
school ;  she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  taking  him  from 
his  studies  and  placing  him  in  some  situation  where  they 
must  be  wholly  neglected.  Early  trained  herself  to  habits 
of  self-denial,  she  was  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice  for  her 
children. 

From  the  death  of  her  father,  Catharine's  native  energy 
of  character  had  been  brought  fully  into  action.  She  waa 


88  CATHARINE      CLAYTON. 

her  mother's  comforter,  companion  and  friend,  and  often 
the  widow  thanked  God  for  having  given  her  such  a  child. 

"  "Well,  Catharine,  which  of  these  plans  do  you  think 
best  ?"  said  Mrs.  Clayton,  after  they  had  been  for  a  long 
time  talking  over  the  past,  and  trying  to  think  what  was 
to  be  done  for  the  future. 

"  Why,  mother,  if  I  could  obtain  a  few  young  ladies  to 
whom  I  might  give  lessons  in  music,  I  think  I  should  like 
it  better  than  anything  else.  I  could  go  to  their  houses, 
and  on  my  return  assist  you  and  teach  Amy.  Perhaps  I 
might  make  more  in  this  way  than  in  any  other,  and  you 
know  it  is  what  will  bring  most  money  that  we  want  just 
now."  Mrs.  Clayton  could  not  forbear  a  smile. 

"  How  calculating  you  have  grown,  Catharine !  one 
would  hardly  suppose  you  were  the  same  girl  who  once 
thought  money  'of  no  value,  and  gave  away  almost  every- 
thing of  your  own  to  your  playmates." 

"  And,  dear  mother,  if  I  had  the  means  I  would  do  so 
now;  but  what  was  then  mere  generosity  would,  under  our 
present  circumstances,  be  thriftless  prodigality.  I  do  not 
believe  I  could  ever  become  covetous  or  miserly ;  but  I 
trust  I  shall  be  prudent  and  economical." 

"  But  how  are  you  to  obtain  those  music  pupils  ?" 

"  We  can  have  circulars  printed,  and  as  the  terms  will 
be  low,  for  I  think  it  best  to  ask  but  ten  dollars  a  quarter, 
I  am  sure  I  will  soon  have  as  many  as  I  can  attend  to." 

'•  Your  plan  is  a  good  one,  but  don't  be  too  sanguine, 
my  dear,  you  may  be  disappointed;  I  do  not  say  this  to 
discourage  you,  but  only  to  moderate  your  expectations." 

The  circulars  were  printed  and  distributed.  A  number 
were  left  at  Mrs.  Archer's,  who  had  kept  up  a  calling 
acquaintance  with  the  Claytons  while  they  remained  in 


CATHARINE     CLAYTOB.  89 

their  old  home.  True,  they  had  not  seen  her  since  their 
removal,  but  that  had  taken  place  so  recently  that  they 
were  not  surprised  at  her  absence. 

"  I  would  not  wonder  if  Mrs.  Archer  gave  me  her  two 
girls  for  pupils  ;  and  she  has  such  a  large  circle  of  acquaint- 
ances, that  she  may  obtain  a  great  many  for  me,"  said 
Catharine,  the  day  after  the  circulars  had  been  left  at  that 
lady's  house. 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  dear,"  said  her  mother.  "  Mrs. 
Archer  is  very  fashionable,  and  prefers  foreign  music 
teachers  for  her  daughters ;  but  as  she  has  always  profess- 
ed a  friendship  for  us,  perhaps  she  may  influence  some  of 
her  friends  in  your  favor." 

Day  after  day  passed  away  in  uncertainty — no  applica- 
tions were  made — "  but  they  might  be  to-raorrow" — mor- 
row after  morrow  came  and  went,  bearing  its  heavy  bur- 
den of  disappointment,  until  at  length  Mrs.  Clayton  and 
her  daughter  sorrowfully  felt  that  some  other  means  must 
be  adopted. 

Catharine  had  never  wholly  abandoned  her  first  favorite 
plan  of  being  a  governess,  and  again  she  spoke  of  it  to  her 
mother.  "  All  I  regret  is  that  I  cannot  be  at  home  with 
you  every  evening,  dear  mother ;  but  upon  the  whole  it 
will  be  better — my  salary  will  be  permanent,  and  I  shall 
be  at  no  expense  whatever;  and  as  I  am  fond  of  children, 
it  will  be  a  labor  of  love  to  me." 

Mrs.  Clayton  sighed ;  she  did  not  wish  to  part  with  the 
society  of  her  child,  but  there  was  no  alternative.  "  To- 
morrow, mother,  I  will  look  in  the  papers,  and  if  there  are 
any  advertisements,  I  will  make  application  immediately." 

Catharine's  eye  ran  eagerly  over  the  list  of  Wants  in 
the  morning  newspapers,  and  found  no  less  than  four  ad- 


90  CATHARINE      CLAYTON. 

vertisemenls  for  a  governess.  The  advertisers  all  resided 
in  different  parts  of  the  city  and  at  great  distances  from 
each  other;  but  distance  was  no  obstacle,  and  she  "  'ft 
home  determined,  if  she  could,  to  find  a  situation  bcfrre 
her  return.  At  the  first  place  she  called  she  was  told 
they  had  already  engaged  a  lady,  who  was  coming  tl.at 
morning.  She  turned  away  somewhat  disappointed,  Lmt 
as  this  was  only  one,  and  there  were  still  three  left,  she 
would  not  allow  herself  to  be  discouraged.  She  had  now 
a  long  walk  before  her,  the  day  was  sultry,  and  completely 
exhausted,  she  rang  at  the  door  of  a  large  and  fashionable 
looking  house  in  the  Fifth  Avenue.  After  waiting  a  long 
time  in  the  hall,  the  lady  of  the  mansion  made  her  ap- 
pearance. Catharine  rose  and  remained  standing,  while 
answering  all  her  questions,  while  the  lady  herself  placed 
one  shoulder  against  the  parlor  door,  and  stood  playing 
with  the  silk  tassels  of  her  embroidered  apron,  apparently 
forgetful  that,  by  any  possibility  whatever,  the  young 
creature  before  her  might  be  fatigued.  At  length  her 
ladyship  came  to  the  point — she  had  three  children — they 
were  very  young — and  as  she  saw  a  great  deal  of  company, 
she  had  no  time  to  look  after  them  herself.  She  wished 
the  governess  to  take  sole  charge  of  the  little  ones — to 
wash  and  dress  them — look  after  their  clothes — take  them 
out  to  walk — teach  them  their  lessons,  and  in  the  evening 
after  they  had  gone  to  bed,  assist  with  the  plain  sewing  of 
the  family. 

Catharine  was  astounded,  and  thought  she  must  have 
made  some  mistake  in  reading  the  advertisement.  Inti- 
mating that  it  was  not  the  situation  of  children's  maid,  but 
of  governess,  that  she  sought,  she  took  her  leave.  She 
had  now  to  go  to  the  lower  part  of  the  city.  Her  feet 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON,  91 

were  swollen  with  walking — her  head  was  aching,  and 
much  as  she  grudged  spending  a  solitary  sixpence,  she 
found  it  must  be  given  for  a  ride  in  an  omnibus.  On 
reaching  the  house1  she  was  in  quest  of,  and  making  known 
her  errand,  she  was  shown  into  a  parlor,  where  a  middle- 
aged  lady,  wearing  an  immense  turban,  was  seated  on  a 
sofa.  This  lady  received  her  very  graciously,  and  began 
to  extol  the  children  for  whom  the  governess  was  wanted. 
"  They  were  little  angels — there  would  be  no  trouble  in  the 
world  in  superintending  their  education — it  would  be  a 
pleasure  for  any  young  lady  to  have  them  under  her 
charge  ;  would  it  not,  my  dear  ?"  she  added,  turning  and 
addressing  a  rather  pretty  languishing-looking  woman,  who 
was  reclining  on  a  divan,  with  a  new  book  open  before  her. 
"  I  have  not  heard  a  word  you  were  saying,  mamma,  I  am 
so  absorbed  in  Ernest  Maltravers  that  I  can  think  of 
nothing  else ;  do,  pray,  arrange  that  matter  without 
troubling  me — it's  the  affair  of  the  governess,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  My  daughter  is  so  nervous  and  so  full  of  sweet  sensi- 
bility, that  common  matters  jar  upon  her  delicate  and 
susceptible  nature;  for  this  reason  I  take  sole  charge  of 
her  children.  She  can't  bear  to  hear  them  cry,  and  her 
heart  is  so  tender  that  she  never  can  remain  near  them 
when  they  are  ill ;  indeed  she  never  sees  them  except 
when  dressed  to  dance  in  a  ballet ;  but  her  taste  in  those 
matters  is  so  exquisite,  that  they  are  then  submitted  to 
her  approval." 

':  How  many  children  are  there  ?"  asked  Catharine, 
wishing  to  direct  the  lady's  attention  to  the  object  of  her 
visit. 

"  Three,  my  dear — Adeliza,  Ethelinda  and  Mortimer 
Grandison — the  latter  was  named  after  Lord  Mortimer  in 


92  CATHARINE      CLAYTON. 

the  Children  of  the  Abbey,  (you've  read  the  Children  of 
the  Abbey,  havn't  you  ?)  and  Sir  Charles  Grandison." 

"What  salary  do  you  propose  giving,  madam?" 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  said  the  lady,  drawing  closer  to 
Catharine,  and  assuming  a  confidential  tone — "  I  don't 
think  wo  will  dispute  about  that." 

Catharine's  heart  beat  quickly — "  how  liberal !"  she 
thought. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,  we  don't  want  the  governess  to  be 
like  a  stranger  in  the  family.  When  she  is  not  engaged 
with  the  children,  she  can  sit  in  my  room  and  read  to  me, 
and  if  she  has  a  taste  for  making  pretty  nic-nacs,  as  most 
young  ladies  have,  she  can  assist  me  in  making  fancy  arti- 
cles for  the  ladies'  fairs,  So  you  see  it  will  be  quite  a 
home  to  her,  and  more  than  that  she  can  have  her  washing 
done  in  the  house." 

"  Well,  madam,  what  will  the  salary  be  ?" 

"  Oh,  child,  I  forgot ;  we  will  give  fifty  dollars  a  year 
into  the  bargain  !  Now  is  not  that  something  handsome  ?" 

"  I  believe,  madam,  I  cannot  accept  the  situation,"  said 
Catharine,  rising. 

"  Not  accept  it  ?  Why,  child,  I  never  heard  anything 
so  absurd !  Remember,  you  get  your  washing  into  the 
bargain !" 

"  It  will  not  suit  me,  I  believe.  Good  morning."  And 
with  a  heavy  heart  Catharine  left  the  house. 

One  place  still  remained — fortunately  it  was  not  far  off, 
and  thither  the  weary  girl  bent  her  steps.  It  was  outward- 
ly a  house  of  plainer  pretensions  than  either  of  the  others, 
but  the  interior  was  shining  with  vulgar  finery.  A  dumpy 
woman,  who  tried  to  look  consequential,  made  her  appear- 
ance, and  proceeded  at  once  to  business. 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON*  93 

"  So  you've  come  to  be  taken  as  governess." 

"  I  have  come  to  ascertain  whether  the  situation  will 
suit  me  or  not." 

"  Suit  you  !  I  dare  say  it  will ;  there's  but  two  children, 
for  you  see  my  husband  was  a  widower  when  I  married 
him,  with  two  sons  grown  up  young  men  ;  one's  gone  to 
sea,  and  the  other's  a  clerk  in  Pearl  street,  but  I  suppose 
he'll  go  in  business  for  himself  next  year.  I  aint  got  but 
two  children  of  my  own,  as  I  told  you,  and  I  want  them 
teached  everything.  They're  both  girls,  and  I  don't  in- 
tend keeping  them  in  the  back-ground,  I  can  tell  you.  Of 
course  you  read  what  I  wanted  in  the  advertisement,  and 
if  you  hadn't  known  how  to  teach  all  the  branches,  you 
wouldn't  have  come.  There's  been  a  good  many  here 
already,  and  my  husband  said  I  was  too  particular,  I'd 
never  be  suited,  but  I  told  him  this  morning  that  I'd  have 
one  before  he  came  home  to-night,  and  I  mean  to  stick  to 
my  word." 

After  so.me  preliminary  matters  were  talked  over,  Cath- 
arine ventured  to  inquire  what  was  the  salary  ?  It  was 
more  than  she  had  supposed  would  be  offered,  and  she 
readily  promised  to  be  there  on  the  following  morning.  With 
the  prospect  of  a  situation  before  her  she  could  afford  to 
spend  another  sixpence,  and  the  omnibus  soon  whirled  her 
near  home.  All  that  had  taken  place  was  soon  related, 
and  Mrs.  Clayton  could  not  forbear  smiling  when  Catha- 
rine told  her  of  the  liberal  offer  of  "  fifty  dollars  a  year  and 
her  washing  into  the  bargain  !" 

The  next  day  saw  her  installed  in  her  new  office  of  pre- 
ceptress to  two  great,  ungainly,  ill-bred  girls ;  who  thought 
there  could  be  no  better  sport  than  pinning  rags  and  pa- 
pers to  the  dress  of  the  governess,  sticking  pins  in  4uir  chair, 


94  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

placing  something  in  her  way  that  she  might  stumble  in  the 
dark,  with  other  such  refined  and  lady-like  amusements. 
The  girls  continued  rude  and  anti-actable,  while  their 
mother,  of  course,  blamed  the  governess,  and  was  seldom 
civil  to  her,  except  when  she  expected  company,  and  wished 
Catharine  to  ontertain  them  by  playing  on  the  piano. 

"  Mirandy,  why  isn't  your  hair  platted  this  morning  ?" 

"  What  makes  you  say  platted,  ma  ?  Governess  says  it's 
plaited" 

"  I'll  teach  your  governess"  (there  was  always  great 
stress  laid  upon  this  latter  word,)  "  I'll  teach  your  govern- 
ess to  know  butter  than  to  make  you  disobedient  to  your 
parents,  finding  fault  with  every  word  that  comes  out  of  my 
mouth  ;  a  pretty  piece  of  business  !  Why  iso't  your  hair 
platted,  you  minx  ?" 

"  Governess  didn't  attend  to  it  this  morning,  and  she 
wouldn't  wash  Hester  Maria's  face,  neither." 

This  was  a  falsehood,  and  the  girl  knew  it,  but  she  hated 
Catharine  for  endeavoring  to  restrain  her  unruly  habits, 
and  did  every  thing  in  her  power  to  annoy  the  sorely  tried 
girl. 

Poor  Catharine !  every  day  some  new  duty  devolved 
upon  her,  which  she  had  never  thought  of  being  asked  to 
perform.  But  she  bore  all  with  unwearied  patience.  Her 
mother  was  toiling  at  home,  and  their  earnest  desire  of 
keeping  William  at  school,  could  only  be  accomplished  by 
Ler  remaining  where  she  was.  She  had  a  high  and  holy 
mission  to  perform,  and  what  cared  she  for  self-sacrifice  ? 
But  at  last  she  was  subjected  to  insult,  and  the  libertine 
addresses  of  the  clerk  in  Pearl  street  drove  bar  back  to  the 
shelter  of  her  mother's  roof. 


CATHARINE      CLAYTOK.  95 

In  a  short  time  William,  too,  was  there,  and  the  widow 
and  her  children  were  wondering  how  and  where  they  would 
find  employment.  • 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHAT    WILL    THEWOELD    SAY?  t 

"  AND  so  Mrs.  Clinton  has  accepted  your  invitation,"  said 
Mr.  Archer,  as  he  strolled  with  an  air  of  listlessness 
through  his  sumptuous  apartments.  Within  the  last  year 
they  had  been  thoroughly  renovated.  Italian  artists  had 
been  employed  in  painting  the  ceilings,  and  Mr.  Archer 
had  received  from  Paris  the  newest  and  most  costly  style  of 
furniture.  Mrs.  Archer  had  a  beautiful  boudoir  fitted  up 
with  mirrors  and  rose-colored  hangings,  with  antique  chairs, 
and  small  inlaid  lables. 

"  A  perfect  love  of  a  place,  with  which  Mrs.  Clinton 
will  be  delighted  !"  said  the  little  woman,  who  was  fast 
losing  all  traces  of  the  beauty  which  had  captivated  the 
bachelor  heart  of  Mr.  Archer. 

Mrs.  Archer  had  ascended  step  by  step  in  the  scale  of 
society,  and  at  each  ascent  had  thrown  off  her  old  friends, 
as  easily  as  one  throws  by  an  old  glove.  She  had  submit- 
ted to  mortifications  which  any  other  woman  with  a  par- 
ticle of  self-respect  would  never  have  endured.  She  had 
in  tarn  beeu  called  upstart,  parvenue,  and  many  other  op- 
pi  obrious  epithets ;  but  her  point  had  been  carried,  she 
had  gained  the  entree  to  the  court  circles  of  the  republic, 
and  she  was  satisfied — she  was  more  than  satisfied — she 


96  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

was  elated,  enchanted,  at  the  thought  of  having  Mrs.  Clin- 
ton for  a  guest ! 

'•  Havn't  I  managed  it  all  nicely,  my  dear  ?  No  one  will 
refuse  our  invitations  now ;  no  one  dare  after  Mrs.  Clinton 
has  accepted.  I'll  tell  you  a  secret ;  I  got  our  Polly  to  ask 
Mrs.  Clinton's  maid  '  who  was  her  mistress's  milliner  ?' 
And  then  I  went  to  the  same  place,  and  found  out  that  she 
had  engaged  a  head-dress  for  Thursday  evening,  and  I  or- 
dered one  exactly  like  it,  but  of  richer  materials ;  won't  she 
be  surprised  to  see  mine  so  much  handsomer  than  her 
own  ?" 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  "  would  it  not  have  been 
in  better  taste  to  have  worn  something  plainer  ?  No  lady 
should  try  to  outshine  her  guests." 

"  What  old  fashioned  notions !  This  comes  of  your  stay- 
ing at  home  so  much,  Mr.  Archer  ;  if  you'd  been  as  much 
in  society  as  I  have,  you'd  know  that  every  lady  wears  the 
best  and  costliest  she  can  afford." 

"  Can  get,  you  mean,  my  dear,"  said  her  husband  drily. 
"  Whether  she  can  afford  it,  is  quite  another  matter." 

"  How  ridiculous  !"  And  Mrs.  Archer,  forgetting  her 
assumed  lady- like  deportment,  flounced  out  of  the  room. 
Uuwilling  to  trust  her  own  taste,  and  determined  on  mak- 
ing the  party  a  splendid  affair,  Mrs.  Archer  hired  a  num- 
ber of  colored  waiters — "  who,"  she  said,  "  were  used  to 
such  things,  for  they  had  waited  in  some  of  the  first  houses ; 
indeed,  she  couldn't  tell  but  they  had  been  at  Mrs.  Clin- 
ton's." 

To  one  of  these  she  gave  carte  blanclie  as  to  expense, 
and  to  the  others  positive  orders  to  follow  his  directions, 
particularly  regarding  the  arrangement  of  the  supper 
table. 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  97 

The  appointed  evening  came — carriage  after  cairiage 
Tolled  up,  deposited  its  burthen  of  finery  and  fashion,  and 
then  passed  on  in  ata  opposite  direction. 

Mrs.  Clinton  and  her  daughter  Julia  were  there,  and  it 
was  the  principal  part  of  Mrs.  Archer's  employment  dur- 
ing the  evening  to  point  them  out  and  introduce  them  to 
her  guests. 

If  profusion  without  taste  be  a  sign  of  gentility  or  fash- 
ion, then  was  Mrs.  Archer's  paity  the  most  genteel  and  the 
most  fashionable  given  during  the  season. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  good  lady,  in  a  tone  of  exultation 
to  her  husband,  as  he  sat  the  next  morning,  with  the  air  of 
a  martyr,  in  the  untidy  breakfast  parlor — "  now  that  this 
has  gone  off  so  well,  on  Laura  Matilda's  birthday  I  shall 
give  a  fancy  ball ;  she  shall  be  dressed  as  a  shepherdess, 
and  I  will  contrive  that  the  divine  count  who  was  here  last 
night,  shall  attend  her  as  a  shepherd  boy,  with  a  crook. 
Maria  Theresa  shall  be  a  queen,  and  wear  a  dress  exactly 
like  the  one  worn  by  Queen  Victoria  on  the  day  of  her 
coronation.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  girl  did  one  day  be- 
come a  princess,  she  has  such  a  stately  way  with  her,  and 
carries  her  head  so  haughtily."  Mr.  Archer  sighed  and 
muttered  something  that  sounded  very  like  "  fool,"  but  his 
wife  heeded  not ;  she  was  no  sooner  done  with  one  folly 
than  she  meditated  another,  and  now  this  new  crotchet  of 
the  fancy  ball  had  whole  possession  of  her  thoughts. 

"  My  dear,"  said  her  husband  after  a  pause,  "  why  do 
you  not  ask  Catharine  Clayton  to  your  parties  ?  she  is 
quite  as  accomplished,  and  has  far  more  refinement  of  man- 
ner, than  many  of  the  butterflies  that  flit  about  you.  Her 
father  I  always  respected,  and  her  mother  is  a  most  es- 
timable woman ;  and  if  Catharine  could  be  brought  to  fancy 
5 


98  CATHARINE      CLAYTON. 

our  girls,  her  society  would  be  a  great  advantage  tc 
them." 

"  Why  how  you  talk,  Mr.  Archer !  you  know  I  could 
never  introduce  such  a  nobody  as  Catharine  Clayton  to  our 
fashionable  friends.  When  they  would  ask  '  Who  is  she  ?' 
what  under  heaven  should  I  answer?  I  could  not  say 
that  her  father  was  some  great  man,  nor  that  she  was  niece 
to  Mr.  so-and-so,  member  of  Congress  ;  not  even  her  grand- 
father could  be  dragged  in  to  support  her  claims  to  good 
society.  I  could  not  pass  her  off  for  a  city  heiress,  for 
there's  not  one  but  either  Ned  Parker  or  young  Thomp- 
kins  has  them  on  their  list ;  people  would  take  her  for  an 
humble  companion,  introduced  on  purpose  to  insult  my 
guests." 

"  Good  heavens !  woman,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  roused 
from  his  usual  apathy,  "  I  believe  you  have  not  one  particle 
of  common  sense !  Have  you  lost  all  self-respect,  and 
become  a  mere  puppet  in  the  hands  of  a  set  of  empty- 
headed  jackasses  ?  Not  dare  to  maintain  your  own  dignity 
and  independence  in  your  own  house  ?  Not  dare  to  ask 
th<;  daughter  of  an  old  friend,  for  fear  of  the  remarks  of 
a  lew  trumpery  misses,  who  might  bless  their  stars  if  they 
were  half  as  wise  or  half  as  good  as  Catharine  Clayton." 

Mrs.  Archer  was  petrified.  She  had  not  heard  such  a 
bu:st  from  her  husband  since  they  were  married,  or  rather, 
si:  ce  he  first  found  out  she  would  not  train.  His  words, 
however,  produced  some  uneasy  thoughts,  and  she  resolved 
in  a  fit  of  her  oics,  to  ask  Catharine  some  day  when  she 
wa3  sure  there  would  be  no  other  company  ;  or,  if  visitors 
should  accidentally  drop  in,  she  was  not  bound  to  intro- 
duce her ;  at  any  rate,  she  could  manage  to  receive  them 
in  one  parlor,  while  Catharine  might  remain  unnoticed 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  99 

in  another.  Thus  did  this  silly  woman  give  up  her  indepen- 
dence of  thought  and  action — thus  did  she  sell  herself 
body  and  soul  to  "the  god  of  this  world,  rather  than  be 
thought  unfashionable.  No  wonder  that  she  forgot  her 
resolution  concerning  Catharine,  and  soon  lost  all  trace  of 
the  Claytons. 

Let  us  leave  her  for  awhile,  and  listen  to  the  remarks  of 
some  of  her  late  guests. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  vulgar  Mrs.  Archer  will  attempt 
next  ?  I  have  no  patience  with  the  woman  !"  exclaimed, 
in  no  very  gentle  tone,  a  lady  who  had  glided  about  a  per- 
fect sylph  at  Mrs.  Archer's,  and  who  had  spoken  in  a  lisp 
so  low,  that  the  gentlemen  were  obliged  to  bow  their  heads 
to  hear  her.  "  She  is  well  enough  in  her  way,  if  she  would 
remain  with  her  own  set ;  but  with  such  a  broad  red  face, 
and  fussy  manner,  she  appears  perfectly  ridiculous,  among 
well-bred  people." 

"  Then  why  do  you  visit  there,  Laura  ?"  said  the  lady's 
mother. 

<:  0,  like  many  others,  I  go  in  search  of  amusement, 
mamma ;  we  sometimes  quiz  her  to  her  face,  and  she  is 
such  a  fool  that  she  cannot  perceive  it.  Of  all  the  women 
I  ever  saw,  she  is  the  most  susceptible  of  flattery.  But 
that  one  is  sure  of  meeting  agreeable  people  there,  I 
would  never  enter  her  doors.  A  few  of  us  have  formed 
a  clique,  and,  without  her  knowing  it,  she  is  completely 
under  our  surveillance,  so  that  she  dare  not  ask  any  one 
she  thinks  would  annoy  us.  As  her  rooms  are  large,  and 
her  refreshments  the  best  that  money  can  procure,  (though 
to  own  the  truth  they  are  but  vilely  served,)  we  generally 
contrive  to  while  away  an  evening  agreeably  enough." 

"  Ma."  said  Julia  Clinton,  "  why  do  you  accept  an  in- 


100  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

vitation  to  Mrs.  Archer's  ?  Such  people  are  certainly  be- 
neath our  notice." 

"  Julia !"  said  her  mother,  deprecatingly.  Julia 
blushed.  "  Have  I  not  told  you  that  such  sentiments 
are  unbecoming,  unwomanly — none  of  God's  creatures 
are  beneath  our  notice.  I  grant  you,  that  in  the  eyes  of 
some,  Mrs.  Archer's  position  in  a  social  point  of  view  is 
inferior  to  our  own ;  but  in  a  country  like  ours,  where 
there  are  such  constant  changes,  these  arbitrary  distinc- 
tions cannot  be  long  kept  up.  A  reverse  of  fortune  may 
humble  the  proudest,  and  a  lucky  speculation  exalt  the 
lowliest.  I  fear  that,  with  all  our  boasting  about  liberty 
and  equality,  and  all  our  railing  against  the  privileged 
and  titled  classes  of  the  old  world,  if  a  privileged  order 
were  to  spring  up  here,  our  worthy  republicans  would 
strain  every  nerve  to  gain  a  patent  of  nobility." 

"  But  Mrs.  Archer  is  so  vulgar." 

"  Are  there  no  vulgar  ladies  in  the  circle  of  our  ac- 
quaintance, my  daughter  ?  and  why  should  wo  visit  them  ? 
I  went  to  Mrs.  Archer's  because  I  knew  it  would  gratify 
her — because  I  had  no  right  to  play  the  exclusive  with  her 
any  more  than  with  others  who  are  on  our  visiting  list; 
and,  above  all,  because  I  knew  many  would  be  there  who 
would  have  made  sport  of  her  mortification,  had  I  refused 
her  invitation." 

"  But  what  will  the  world  say,  ma,  when  they  hear  you 
are  on  visiting  terms  with  Mrs.  Archer  ?" 

"  That  is  rather  a  comprehensive  phrase,  Julia — who 
do  you  mean  by  the  world  ?" 

"  Why,  all  the  people  we  know,"  said  Julia,  who,  like 
many  young  persons,  thought  her  own  set  comprised  the 
whole  world. 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  101 

"  My  dear,  there  is  a  very  trite  and  true  saying,  that 
'  We  cannot  please  everybody.'  I  would  not  have  you 
set  public  opinion  at  defiance,  by  acting  in  a  manner  truly 
censurable  ;  but  when  you  are  fully  convinced  of  the  purity 
of  your  intentions,  and  the  loftiness  of  your  purpose,  I 
would  have  you  to  act  fearlessly  without  stopping  to  ask, 
'  What  will  the  world  say  ?'  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    PEEP     AT    POVERTY. 

"  I  CAN  give  no  more,"  said  a  dark  looking  man  with  a 
keen  black  eye,  in  a  gruff  voice,  to  a  young  girl  who  stood 
before  him  at  the  counter — "  I  can  give  no  more,  I  tell 
you.  Why,  at  our  last  yearly  sale,  there  were  far  hand- 
somer ones  than  this,  sold  for  less  than  would  pay  for 
storage."  And  he  turned  in  his  hand  an  old-fashioned 
silver  tea  urn. 

"  If  you  could  advance  a  little  more ;  just  a  little — 
even  fifty  cents  would  be  of  service." 

"  I  can't,  I  tell  you ;  and  if  it  don't  suit  you  to  leave 
it,  you  can  take  it  away  and  try  to  make  a  better  bar- 
gain." 

The  young  girl  stood  as  if  irresolute,  and  a  half  sup- 
pressed groan  escaped  her. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  go  anywhere  else,  and  I  believe  I 
must  take  what  you  offer." 

Had  not  the  man's  heart  been  hard  as  the  impenetrable 
adamant,  he  would  have  relented — his  purse-strings  would 


102  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

Lave  opened.  But,  no  !  he  was  accustomed  to  misery  in 
every  form — his  doors  had  been  darkened  by  the  most 
squalid  wretchedness — his  walls  had  echoed  the  groans  of 
bleeding  and  breaking  hearts — his  shelves  had  been  the 
receptacles  of  early  love,  the  ring,  the  locket,  the  brooch 
— of  desecrated  household  gods,  the  Lares  and  Penates  of 
once  happy  homes,  parted  with  in  an  hour  of  agony,  to 
gain  a  scanty  pittance  wherewith  to  feed  a  little  longer  the 
flame  of  life  which  burned  with  fitful  lustre  in  the  hollow 
eye.  He  stood  amid  these  wrecks  of  human  happiness, 
an  incarnate  Moloch,  heeding  the  pleadings  of  the  poverty- 
stricken,  as  little  as  heeds  the  fiery  Juggernaut  the  groan- 
ings  of  the  wretched  victims  crushed  beneath  his  car. 

The  young  girl  stepped  out  into  the  dark  street,  and  the 
door  of  the  pawnbroker  was  closed  behind  her.  The 
evening  was  cold,  and  a  heavy  snow  had  fallen.  The  girl 
hurried  on,  wrapping  a  light  abawl  closely  round  her 
slender  figure.  Many  a  pleigli,  with  its  merry  bells  tink- 
ling, and  its  gay  groups  dressed  in  furs,  flew  past  her,  and 
many  a  well-dressed  pedestrian,  booted  and  cloaked,  won- 
dered at  the  young  girl's  imprudence  in  venturing  out  on 
such  a  night  so  thinly  clad.  She  heeded  none  of  them, 
but  hurried  on  toward  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  When 
passing  a  baker's  window,  spread  with  dainty  cakes,  she 
saw  a  wretched  looking  man  enter  the  door.  In  a  mo- 
ment he  came  out,  and  joined  a  woman  and  two  little 
girls,  who  were  shivering  in  the  cold.  In  his  hand  he 
held  two  rusk.  One  of  these  he  divided  between  the 
children,  from  the  other  he  broke  a  small  piece  and  gave 
the  rest  to  his  wife.  The  woman  raised  it  to  her  lips,  took 
one  mouthful,  looked  at  her  children,  and  broke  it  between 
them  !  Tears  gushed  from  the  young  girl's  eyes.  "  0, 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  103 

for  the  cost  of  one  sleigh-ride  !  0,  for  what  will  be  paid 
by  one  party  to-night  for  refreshments  !"  she  mentally  ex- 
claimed. She  stepped  up  close  by  one  of  the  children, 
stooped,  and  put  two  shillings  in  her  hand. 

"  God  of  the  destitute,  protect  them,"  said  the  thinly- 
clad  girl,  as  she  hastened  away.  On  she  went,  a  long  and 
dreary  walk  through  the  drifting  snow,  until  at  length 
she  paused  before  a  low  wooden  paling,  and  opening  a 
small  gate,  ascended  seven  or  eight  broken  steps  in  the 
side  of  a  bank  of  earth,  one  part  of  which  had  been  (lug 
away.  On  the  top  of  the  ascent  was  a  dilapidated  frame 
building,  with  a  ricketty  wooden  stoop,  which  had  half 
fallen  down,  and  was  supported  by  a  rude  beam  of  decayed 
wood.  There  were  one  or  two  shutters  to  the  lower  win- 
dows, but  the  hinges  were  cracked  and  broken,  and  tLey 
creaked  in  the  wind  as  if  imploring  to  be  taken  from  their 
crazy  and  precarious  position.  In  the  shattered  pa'ies 
fluttered  various  fragments  of  old  garments,  like  flags  of 
defiance  flung  out  in  the  very  face  of  the  storm.  It  vas 
altogether  vile  and  ruinous  in  appearance.  Who  did  it 
shelter  from  the  blast  ?  Who  were  the  inmates  of  this 
wretched  abode  ? 

The  young  girl  softly  entered  the  house  and  was  groping 
her  way  along  the  dark  passage,  when  the  door  of  a  room  was 
violently  thrown  open,  and  a  rude,  vulgar,  slip-shod  woman 
made  her  appearance,  followed  by  a  set  of  noisy  children. 
"  So,  it's  you,  Miss,  is  it  ?  A  pretty  time  of  night  this 
for  a  decent  young  woman  to  be  out  of  her  own  house — 
Andrew  Jackson,  if  you  don't  quit  hollerin  when  I'm  a 
talking,  I'll  skin  you  alive ;  look  at  Henry  Clay,  how 
nicely  he  behaves  himself.  0,  yes,  Miss,  you  needn't  try 
to  git  apast  me,  and  sneak  off  in  that  manner."  Here 


104  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

she  was  interrupted  by  a  scream — "  Confound  the  brats  ! 
Mandy,  go  and  pull  Andrew  Jackson  from  that  ere  cradle  ; 
he's  a  plaguing  Ann  Caroline  to  death — yes,  Miss,  you 
shan't  git  apast  till  I  give  you  a  piece  of  my  mind.  I 
warned  your  mother  a  week  ago,  that  she  must  look  out 
for  another  place.  Instead  o'  paying  of  me  in  advance 
she  owes  two  weeks  already,  though  it  was  a  dead  loss 
when  I  rented  the  room  to  her  for  ten  shillin  a  week. 
Now  I  shan't  submit  to  be  imposed  on  no  longer.  Mr. 
Higgins  has  been  too  easy  with  you,  but  I'll  let  him  see 
that  I'll  be  mistress  in  my  own  house,  and  not  have  it 
filled  with  such  trumpery ;  folks  that  feel  themselves  too 
good  to  come  and  sit  sociably  with  a  body,  and  yet  go 
strolling  about  the  streets  o'  nights.  Why,  my  Amandy 
might  be  ruin'd  for  aught  as  I  know.  Now  you  may  go 
and  tell  your  mother  what  I've  said.  I  give  you  fair 
warning  this  time."  Slamming  to  the  door  when  she 
had  ended  her  harangue,  she  left  the  young  girl  once 
more  in  the  dark,  who,  feeling  her  way  by  the  broken 
baluster,  ascended  the  stairs  and  entered  a  room  in  the 
second  story.  The  furniture  was  scanty,  but  scrupulously 
clean,  and  neatly  arranged.  In  one  corner  was  a  bed,  and 
on  the  hearth  stood  a  furnace,  with  some  charcoal  burning 
in  it. 

"  How  long  you  have  been  absent,  my  child,"  said  a 
woman,  in  a  low  voice,  who  was  sitting  at  a  small  table, 
sewing  on  coarse  check  shirts.  "  I  fear  you  have  caught 
cold  being  out  in  this  storm ;  your  feet  must  be  quite 
wet ;  sit  down  here,"  continued  she,  placing  a  chair-  beside 
the  furnace.  "  Sit  down  here,  my  love,  until  I  get  you 
some  dry  clothing;  here  is  some  water  I  have  kept 
warm,  that  you  might  bathe  your  feet,  and  a  bowl  of  nice 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  105 

gruel  which  only  boiled  a  minute  or  two  before  you  came 
in." 

"Dear  mother,  you  are  so  anxious;  I  am  quite  warm, 
and  a  little  damp  will  not  hurt  me  in  the  least,  let  me 
tell  you — " 

i£  I  will  hear  nothing  until  you  have  done  as  I  desire; 
your  health  is  of  more  consequence  than  anything  else, 
and  a  few  simple  precautions  may  save  you  a  severe  cold, 
or  perhaps  a  fit  of  illness." 

Tears  started  to  the  young  girl's  eyes  at  the  total  for- 
getfulness  of  self  which  her  mother  exhibited,  who  she 
knew  had  been  waiting  anxiously  to  hear  the  result  of  her 
errand.  She  obeyed  quietly  and  in  silence,  as  her  eye 
wandered  to  the  little  table  her  mother  had  just  left.  A 
child  sat  by  it ;  on  its  upraised  leaf  her  arms  were  folded, 
and  her  young  head,  covered  with  a  profusion  of  light 
shining  curls,  drooped  heavily  upon  them.  Her  face  was 
concealed,  but  her  motionless  posture  and  light  regular 
breathing  told  that  she  slept.  A  map  she  had  been  color- 
ing, and  on  which  a  boundary  line  was  partly  traced,  lay 
open  before  her. 

"  Poor  Amy  !  how  weary  she  seems,"  said  her  sister  in 
a  whisper. 

"  Yes,  weary,  indeed,"  replied  her  mother.  '•  I  wished 
her  to  leave  off,  but  she  had  tasked  herself,  and  thought 
she  would  have  finished  before  your  return.  I  was  glad 
when  the  poor  child  fell  asleep,  that  she  might  have  a  short 
respite  from  her  labors.  And  now  tell  me,  my  love,  how 
you  have  succeeded." 

"  Not  very  well,  mother  ;  I  could  get  but  four  dollars 
on  the  urn." 

"  But  four  dollars  !" 

5* 


106  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

"  That  is  all ;  and  although  I  felt  ashamed  to  ask  for 
more,  yet  I  did,  and  pleaded  for  even  fifty  cents.  0, 
mother,  this  is — " 

"  Mortifying,  you  would  say,  Catharine.  I  know  it,  and 
I  grieve  that  we  are  under  the  terrible  necessity  of  expos- 
ing ourselves  in  this  manner,  and  to  such  people.  I  heard 
our  landlady's  voice,  too,  when  you  came  in,  and  thought 
she  was  speaking  to  you  ;  but  I  was  afraid  of  waking  Amy, 
and  did  not  go  down." 

"  Yes,  mother,  she  stopped  me  to  say  that  we  could  stay 
no  longer  without  paying  the  rent ;  you  know  it  is  twenty 
shillings,  and  if  we  take  it  out  of  these  four  dollars,  what 
are  we  to  do  ?  and — mother — it  is  not  all  here." 

"  That  is  unfortunate,  indeed  ;  how  did  you  lose  it  ?" 

"  I  did  not  lose  it,  mother  ;  but  I  could  not  help  giving 
it — "  and  Catharine  related  the  incident  that  occurred  be- 
fore the  baker's  shop. 

"  You  did  right,  my  child ;  they  were  more  destitute 
thau  we." 

Catharine's  eyes  sparkled  when  she  heard  her  mother's 
approval.  Their  extreme  poverty  was  forgotten ;  for  a 
moment  she  even  felt  rich,  as  she  glanced  around  their  tidy 
apartment,  and  thought  of  the  homeless,  supperless  chil- 
dren of  the  poor  wayfarer.  She  thought  it 

No  sin 

Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguished  than  ourselves ;  that  thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills, 
And  sympathize  with  others  suffering  more." 

"  I  would  not  care  how  soon  we  left  this  wretched  house,'' 
resumed  Mrs.  Clayton,  "  if  we  had  the  means  of  providing 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  .  107 

ourselves  -with  another ;  come  what  will,  the  rent  must  be 
paid,  if  wo  expect  to  be  treated  with  civility.  There  will 
still  be  twelve — no — ten  shillings  left ;  there  is  something 
owing  to  both  Amy  and  yourself  for  coloring  prints  and 
maps,  and  perhaps  the  lady  for  whom  you  marked  the  em- 
broiderd  handkerchiefs  will  pay  you  to-morrow.  It  is  but 
a  miserable  pittance  I  get  for  making  these  shirts,  and  ray 
eye-sight  is  so  bad  that  I  cannot  undertake  finer  work. 
William,  too,  has  received  none  of  his  scanty  wages  for  the 
last  three  months." 

Both  mother  and  daughter  sat  for  a  long  time  absorbed 
in  thought.  They  were  poor  and  friendless,  but  not  de- 
sponding, and  when  Amy  woke  from  her  slumber,  the  three 
knelt  together,  and  the  mother  thanked  God  for  having 
preserved  them  hitherto,  and  prayed  him  to  aid  and  succor 
them,  if  there  were  darker  days  yet  in  store. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A     RAY    OF     LIGHT. 

THREE  years,  three  weary  years,  had  passed  since  Cath- 
arine Clayton,  harassed  and  indignant,  had  left  her  situa- 
tion as  governess.  She  had  toiled  on,  assisting  her  mother, 
but  their  united  efforts  eked  \^ut  by  the  wages  of  Willia-u, 
who  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  place  in  a  store,  and  of 
Amy,  who  had«been  taught  to  color  maps,  and  thus  added 
a  little  to  the  general  fund,  could  not  keep  them  from  want. 
They  had  removed  from  place  to  place,  descending  gradu- 
ally-until  they  were  obliged  to  occupy  their  present  apart- 


108  CATHARINE     CL/ 1TTON. 

ments,  at  ten  shillings  a  week,  and  even  this  they  were  no 
longer  able  to  pay. 

"  Well,  Catharine,  has  the  lady  paid  you  for  marking 
those  embroidered  handkerchiefs  ?" 

"  No,  mother,  she  was  at  a  ball  last  night,  and  I  suppose 
did  not  rise  so  early  as  usual  this  morning." 

"  Why,  it  is  twelve  o'clock  !" 

"  Yes,  but  it  was  not  more  than  eleven  when  I  was  there. 
I  stopped  on  my  way  home  to  see  William.  A  paper  lay 
on  the  counter,  and  as  my  eye  glanced  over  it,  I  saw  an 
advertisement  for  a  governess,  and  with  your  permission, 
mother,  will  make  inquiries  about  the  situation." 

Mrs.  Clayton  thought  of  all  her  daughter  had  formerly 
been  subjected  to.  "  I  am  afraid  of  letting  you  go  from 
me  again,  my  child,  and  I  would  rather  try  and  devise  some 
other  means  for  our  support." 

"  Mother,  I  can  think  of  none.  We  have  toiled  day  and 
night,  and  our  scanty  remuneration  is  withheld  until  we  are 
weary  of  asking.  That  very  woman  at  whose  house  i  call- 
ed this  morning,  has  twice  before  sent  me  away  with  the 
most  frivolous  excuses.  0,  if  the  rich  knew  the  anguish 
of  heart  with  which  the  poor  turn  away  unpaid — if  they 
knew  how  precious  is  that  time  which  they  think  can  be 
squandered  away  in  repeated  calls  for  the  wages  of  honest 
toil — they  would  not — they  could  not,  be  so  heartless  !" 

"  But  it  is  because  they  do  not  know  these  things,  that 
they  have  no  sympathy.  The  lady  who  employs  a  seam- 
stress, and  urges  her  to  have  the  work  finished  at  some 
given  time,  never  dreams  of  the  privation  to  which  the  poor 
girl  may  be  subjected  for  want  of  the  money  for  which  she 
has  toiled  with  sunken  eye  and  weary  frame.  And  how 
should  the  rich  know  this  ?  Pampered  with  every  luxury, 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  19 

•their  slightest  wishes  gratified,  how  should  they  know  what 
it  is  to  work  and  wait  ?  How  can  the  woman  who  pays 
freely  twenty-five'  dollars  for  an  embroidered  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, attach  any  value  to  the  paltry  twenty-five  cents 
slie  contracted  to  pay  for  marking  it?  But  let  us  not  be 
too  harsh  in  our  judgments ;  prosperity  has  its  quicksands 
as  well  as  adversity,  and  after  a  few  short  years,  the  poor 
as  well  as  the  rich  will  have  one  common  resting-place." 

"  Mother,  if  you  have  no  objections  I  will  go  to-day  and 
see  about  the  situation ;  I  am  older  now  than  when  I  last 
set  out  on  such  a  quest,  and  I  believe  have  more  insight 
into  character." 

"  Your  dress,  I  fear,  my  child,  will  be  but  little  in  your 
favor ;  some  people  are  strongly  biased  in  their  estimation 
of  others  by  their  personal  appearance,  and  your  costume, 
Catharine,  is  not  very  prepossessing." 

"  I  know  it,  mother,  but  I  am  willing  to  run  the  risk, 
and,  if  need  be,  submit  to  a  refusal.  Be  assured  I  have 
too  much  self-respect  to  feel  ashamed  merely  on  account  of 
the  plainness  of  my  apparel,  and  no  lady  of  discernment 
will  regard  that  alone  as  her  only  test  of  character." 

"  Go  then,  and  may  the  Protector  of  the  fatherless  go 
with  you." 

Catharine  Clayton,  though  only  twenty  years  of  age,  had 
lost  much  of  the  roundness  of  form  and  the  elastic  step  of 
youth.  Her  countenance  had  assumed  a  grave  and 
thoughtful  expression,  which  made  her  appear  much  older 
than  she  really  was ;  and  a  common  observer  would  have 
passed  her  by  without  seeing  anything  very  remarkable  in 
her  appearance — but  those  accustomed  to  study  and  dis- 
criminate human  character,  who  looked  upon  her  intellect- 
ual face,  and  mildly  eloquent  eyes,  would  at  once  have  pro- 


110  CATHARINE      CLAYTON. 

nounced  her  no  common  character.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  it  was  with  a  nervous  trepidation  entirely  at  variance 
with  her  usual  habits  of  self-command,  that  she  rang  the 
bell  at  the  door  of  an  elegant  looking  house  in  "YVaverley 
Place.  She  had  so  much  at  stake  ! — the  welfare  of  those 
beloved  ones  who  h.ad  now  little  part  in  life's  heritage, 
save — 

"  The  common  air, 

And  common  use  of  their  own  limbs" — 


those  beloved  ones  who  had  been  so  thoughtlessly  jostle 
aside  on  the  highway  of  the  world,  until  the  place  of  their 
sojourn  was  unknown,  perhaps  their  very  existence  forgot- 
ten, by  their  former  associates  ! 

The  apartment  into  which  Catharine  was  shown  was 
superbly  furnished,  but  what  immediately  attracted  her  ucfo 
tice  were  the  various  specimens  of  art,  arranged  with  the 
utmost  taste,  with  which  it  was  adorned.  She  had  risen 
to  examine  more  closely  a  cabinet  picture  of  exquisite  grace 
and  beauty,  a  copy  of  the  celebrated  violin  player  of  R;if- 
aelle,  one  of  those  inimitable  creations,  the  beauty  of  which, 
once  seen,  haunts  us  for  a  life-time,  when  she  heard  the 
door  open,  and  the  lady  of  the  mansion  entered  the  room. 
She  gave  one  searching  look  at  her  visitor,  which  sent  the 
blood  rushing  to  the  face  of  the  young  girl,  but  in  a  mo- 
ment her  eyes  were  withdrawn,  and,  with  a  courteous  and 
kind  manner,  she  asked  Catharine  to  be  seated. 

"  You  wish  to  obtain  a  situation  as  governess,  I  be- 
lieve ?" 

"  Yes,  madam,  I  saw  an  advertisement  in  the  paper  this 
morning — governess  for  two  little  girls  ?"  she  said  inquir- 
ingly- 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  Ill 

"  Yes,  for  my  two  youngest  children,  who  are  eight  and 
ten  years  of  age ;  the  young  lady  who  last  had  charge  of 
them  was  obliged  t6  leave  on  account  of  ill-health.  I  re- 
gretted to  part  with  her,  for  she  was  a  most  amiable  per- 
son, and  the  children  were  greatly  attached  to  her.  Have 
you  resided  in  any  family  as  governess  ?" 

"  One  only." 

"Was  it  lately?" 

"  No,  it  is  three  years  since." 

"  Were  you  long  there  ?" 

"  Three  months." 

"That  was  a  short  time — may  I  ask  why  you  remained 
no  longer  ?" 

"  I  could  not,  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  left  home — 
and — "  Catharine  hesitated.  She  was  ashamed  to  ackowl- 
edge,  as  is  every  woman  of  fine  feeling,  that  she  had  been 
subjected  to  insult. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  press  you  to  tell  me  why  you  left ;  I 
dare  say  you  had  sufficient  reason  for  so  doing.  Are  you 
now  at  home  ?" 

"  Yes.  my  mother  is  a  widow,  and  two  other  children  be- 
side myself  are  with  her,"  and  the  poor  girl's  lip  quivered 
as  she  thought  of  little  Amy,  bowed  dowii  over  her  maps. 
Without  pretending  to  notice  her  emotion,  the  lady  asked 
if  she  thought  herself  competent  to  teach  the  English 
branches,  with  music  and  French,  as  these  were  all  to 
whjch  she  wished  a  governess  to  devote  her  attention. 
Catharine  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"  Then  I  shall  call  and  see  your  mother  to-morrow, 
when  we  will  arrange  the  terms." 

Here  was  a  new  embarassinent.  Would  the  lady  take 
her  after  seeing  where  she  Jived  ?  What  if  that  horrid 


112  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

Mrs.  Higgins  with  her  young  brood  of  unmanageables 
should  be  in  the  way?  But  there  was  no  use  in  conjec- 
turing, and  too  upright  to  prevaricate  or  use  any  subter- 
fuge, however  harmless  it  might  appear,  Catharine  gave 
her  name,  and  the  directions  to  find  her  mother's  dwelling. 

The  lady  rightly  suspected  that  the  family  she  was 
about  to  visit  must  be  very  destitute,  and  being  a  womau 
of  fine  feeling,  and  possessing  a  large  share  of  consideration 
for  others,  she  was  not  willing  to  subject  ono  who  might  be 
the  future  *£acher  and  companion  of  her  children,  to  the 
invidious  remarks  of  servants ;  so,  instead  of  ordering  her 
carriage,  she  set  out  on  foot  for  the  home  of  Mrs.  Clayton. 

The  abodes  of  poverty  were  not  unknown  to  her.  Often 
had  she  been  the  angel  of  mercy  to  the  suffering  and  the 
destitute.  Early  left  a  widow,  with  an  ample  fortune  at 
her  control,  she  felt  that  she  was  but  the  steward  of  the 
Almighty's  bounty,  and  that  at  the  dread  day  of  judgment 
she  must  render  an  account  of  her  stewardship.  Belong- 
ing to  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  wealthy  families  in  a 
Southern  State,  highly  intellectual  and  accomplished,  her 
society  was  courted,  and  her  presence  coveted,  in  the  most 
select  circles.  Equally  removed  from  fanaticism  on  the 
one  hand,  and  slavery  to  the  world  on  the  other,  she  en- 
joyed her  Christian  liberty,  which  allowed  her  to  partake 
of  all  innocent  recreation,  while  at  the  same  time  it  re- 
strained her  from  spending  that  time  which  God  had  given 
to  fit  her  for  eternity,  in  idle  extravagance,  or  a  silly  de- 
votion to  the  caprices  of  fashion.  Watching  over  her 
children,  and  the  different  members  of  her  household,  with 
the  strict  watchfulness  and  gentle  love  of  oue  who  cared 
not  only  for  their  bodies,  but  their  souls,  she  was  yet  de- 
void of  all  affectation  of  piety ;  and  those  who  saw  her 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  113 

cheerful  and  unconstrained  manner,  and  listened  to  the 
brilliant  flow  of  her  conversation,  welling  up  from  the 
depths  of  a  cultivated  and  richly-stored  mind,  could  scarce- 
ly believe  that  she  was  the  same  woman  who,  on  every 
Lord's  day,  joined  so  devoutly  in  the  worship  of  the  sanc- 
tuary, or  that  that  rich  voice  had  fallen  softly  as  the  mur- 
mur of  a  summer  fount  on  many  a  parched  and  weary 
heart.  She  was,  in  truth, 

"A  perfect  woman,  nobly  plann'd." 

We  have  met  Mrs.  Clinton  once  before,  on  her  return 
from  Mrs.  Archer's  party,  and  we  gladly  accompany  her 
now  on  her  visit  to  the  Claytons. 

To  the  delight  of  Catharine,  Mr.  Higgins  had  that 
morning  consented  to  take  his  wife  and  children  on  a 
sleigh-ride  to  Harlem.  Such  crying  and  screaming  were 
never  heard,  such  a  perfect  bedlam  was  never  seen.  An- 
drew Jackson  was  running  about  with  his  hair  on  end, 
while  his  mother  was  ordering  him  to  be  quiet,  and  behave 
like  a  gentleman. 

"  I'll  never  be  able  to  make  anything  genteel  out  o'  you 
in  the  world.  I  thought  I  shouldn't  when  your  father  in- 
sisted on  giving  you  that  name  of  yourn.  I  told  him  no 
good  would  come  of  it,  for  the  Locofocos  were  all  a  low 
set ;  look  at  Henry  Clay  there,  he  behaves  like  a  gentle- 
man." 

At  last,  after  every  chest  had  been  rummaged  for  stray 
garments,  and  two  stools  carried  to  the  door  for  Henry 
Clay  and  Andrew  Jackson  to  sit  upon,  Mr.  Higgins  made 
his  appearance,  and  with  Mrs.  Higgins  (who  held  the  baby 
on  her  lap)  beside  him,  and  Mandy  squeezed  between  them 
on  the  only  seat,  and  the  young  Whig  and  Locofoco  placed 


114  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

side  by  side,  with  some  appearance  of  amicability,  the  par- 
ty set  out. 

Catharine  was  glad  when  she  saw  them  drive  from  the 
door.  Mrs.  Clinton  soon  after  reached  the  iiou?c,  am  a 
slight  blush  suffused  the  poor  girl's  cheek  as  she  ope;  ed 
the  door  for  her  visitor.  One  glance  around  the  ap;.rt- 
ment  into  which  she  entered  convinced  Mrs.  Clinton  tuat 
she  was  among  superior  people.  True,  there  was  poveriy, 
but  none  of  its  usual  squalid  and  untidy  accompanituei  ts. 
Mrs.  Clayton,  though  dressed  in  garments  of  coarse  ria- 
terial,  and  plain  fashion,  had  an  easy  self-possession,  a  d  ig- 
nity  of  demeanor,  and  a  polished  address,  which  commend- 
ed her  to  the  taste,  as  well  as  to  the  kind  feeling,  of  the 
noble  woman  with  whom  she  was  conversing.  With  the 
utmost  delicacy  Mrs.  Clinton  drew  from  the  widow  'he 
story  of  her  bereavement,  and  learned  also  the  cause  of 
Catharine's  remaining  but  three  months  as  a  governess. 

"  I  intended  taking  your  daughter  home  with  me  to-c.iy, 
Mrs.  Clayton,  but  there  may  be  some  arraugem  :nts  ^,ou 
would  like  to  make  before  her  leaving  you,  and,  as  I  luve 
every  reason  to  feel  assured  that  I  shall  be  pleased  with 
Catharine,  I  leave  with  her  the  first  half  year's  salary." 

Mrs.  Clayton  fully  understood  the  delicacy  which  proiL.U- 
ed  the  offer,  and  her  heart  swelled  with  emotion.  At  last 
one  true  woman  had  been  found  to  whom  she  could  comnit 
her  eldest  darling,  without  fear  of  her  being  subjected  to 
vulgar  caprice,  or  licentious  insult. 

The  mother's  heart  was  glad,  and  from  it,  as  from  an 
altar,  the  mother's  grateful  thanks  arose  like  sweet  inceuse 
to  the  throne  of  Him  who  briugeth  light  out  of  darkness, 
and  maketh  streams  of  consolation  to  spring  up  like  waters 
in  the  desert. 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  115 

The  first  thing  done  by  the  Claytons  was  to  provide 
themselves  with  a  pew  home.  They  succeeded  in  finding 
the  upper  part  of  a  neat,  but  plain  house,  to  which  they 
removed  immediately.  One  cart  held  all  the  heavier  arti- 
cles of  furniture,  and  the  lighter  ones  were  carried  by 
William  and  his  sisters.  They  had  been  fortunate  enough 
to  meet  with  a  quiet,  neat  family,  and  the  tidy  appearance 
of  the  place,  forming  a  strong  contrast  to  the  unswept  and 
unwashed  house  of  Mrs.  Higgins,  was  truly  charming. 

Catharine  was  soon  installed  in  her  office  of  governess 
over  two  lovely,  sweet-tempered  girls,  the  elder  of  whom, 
both  in  person  and  manner,  greatly  resembled  her  sister 
Amy.  What  a  change  in  one  short  month  had  been 
effected  by  the  generous  hand  and  the  kind  heart  of  one 
noble  woman  !  A  whole  family,  apparently  on  the  brink 
of  destitution,  had  been  raised  from  sorrow  to  joy,  from 
the  gloomy  depths  of  poverty,  from  the  carking  cares  of 
cruel  want,  to  the  cheerful  light  of  competence. 

0,  for  more  Mrs.  Clintons !  0,  that  more  possessors 
of  thousands  would  learn  like  her  the  luxury  of  doing 
good. 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 


PLANS    AND    PROJECTS. 


"  Now,  my  daughters,  see  that  you  acquit  yourselves 
handsomely  to-night ;  after  all  the  money  that  has  been 
spent  upon  your  education,  it  would  be  too  bad  if  you  did 
not  appear  to  as  good  an  advantage  as  other  people. 


116  CATHARINE      CLAYTON. 

Laura  Matilda,  don't  laugh  so  loud,  you  know  Lord 
Chesterfield  says  it's  vulgar  ;  and  you,  Maria  Teresa,  don't 
jump  quite  so  high  when  you  are  dancing,  a  lady  you 
know  should  move  easily  and  gracefully,  and  don't  forget 
to  keep  your  eyes  open  and  see  how  things  are  managed  at 
Mrs.  Clinton's.  You  know  she  belongs  to  the  elite,  and 
as  this  is  your  first  visit  to  her,  I  dare  say  you  can  learn 
a  great  deal  if  you  are  only  on  the  look  out."  Such  were 
Mrs.  Archer's  instructions  to  her  daughters  as  they  were 
dressing  to  spend  an  evening  at  Mrs.  Clinton's,  whither 
the  divine  count  was  to  accompany  them. 

A  young  lady  was  crossing  the  hall  as  the  party  entered 
Mrs.  Clinton's  house,  at  sight  of  whom  the  sisters  started 
as  if  they  had  beheld  an  apparition,  and  began  whispering 
to  each  other.  "  Stop  until  I  ask  the  servant  who  she  is," 
said  one,  "  let  us  find  out  what  situation  she  holds  about 
the  house." 

"  Yes,  do  ask,"  said  the  other,  "  you  know  they  were 
awfully  poor,  and  I  would  not  for  the  world  have  Mrs. 
Clinton  suppose  we  ever  visited  such  people." 

Having  ascertained  that  the  object  of  their  inquiry  was 
the  governess,  the  young  ladies  at  once  determined  that  if 
by  any  chance  they  met  her  during  the  evening,  they  would 
treat  her  as  a  perfect  stranger,  an  individual  too  utterly 
insignificant  to  be  noticed  by  them. 

They  were  not  a  little  surprised  when,  on  entering  the 
parlor,  the  first  person  they  saw  was  Catharine  Clayton, 
the  governess ;  the  young  ladies  swept  past  her  without 
deigning  a  glance,  and  almost  flew  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  where  Mrs.  Clinton  and  her  daughter  were  standing, 
protesting,  in  the  most  elaborate  terms,  how  delighted 
they  were  at  seeing  their  hostess  and  the  lovely  Julia 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  117 

looking  so  well.  Catharine  stood  for  a  moment  confound- 
ed by  their  conduct — girls  she  had  known  so  intimately,  to 
act  in  such  an  absurd  manner  !  But  her  self-possession, 
and  with  it  her  self-respect,  returned  in  a  moment.  Mrs. 
Clinton  had  seen  the  whole  procedure,  and  knowing  on 
what  terms  Mrs.  Archer  and  her  daughters  had  formerly 
been  with  the  Claytons,  felt  strongly  indignant ;  but  the 
silly  worldlings  were  her  guests,  and,  as  such,  were  entitled 
to  her  polite  attention. 

There  was  one  gentleman  of  the  party  who  shared  the 
devotion  of  the  sisters  almost  equally  with  the  count,  and 
they  were  determined  on  ferreting  out  who  and  what  he 
was.  Finding  an  opportunity  in  the  course  of  the  evening 
of  addressing  Julia  Clinton  alone,  Maria  Teresa  asked  if 
Mr.  Lester  were  not  a  clergyman  :  adding,  she  thought  so, 
because  he  had  such  a  grave  and  dignified  appearance. 

"No,  he  is  not." 

"  0,  I  suppose  he  is  a  gentleman  of  fortune,  travelling 
through  this  country,  or,  perhaps,  a  nobleman  ?  he  has 
certainly  an  air  distingue." 

"  Edward  Lester  is  a  classical  teacher  in  one  of  our 
large  schools." 

The  young  ladies  were  crest-fallen.  All  their  polite- 
ness, all  their  winning  airs  and  graces,  all  their  battery  of 
side  glances,  lisping  accents,  fan  flirtations,  had  been  lost 
on  a  schoolmaster !  The  thing  was  too  preposterous ! 
And,  lest  he  might  have  the  audacity  to  presume  a  little 
after  those  innocent  encouragements,  and,  perhaps,  to  call 
upon  them,  they  determined  on  being  uncivil  to  him  dur- 
ing the  rest  of  the  evening. 

The  sisters  had  ended  their  third  duet,  and  left  the 
piano,  when  the  count,  released  for  a  moment  from  his 


118  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

attendance  upon  Laura  Matilda,  addressed  himself  to 
Catharine  in  a  mixture  of  French  and  broken  English. 

"  Chautez  vous,  Mademoiselle  ?  Ah,  pardon,  voulez 
vous  chantez  for  de  ladies  ?" 

"  I  seldom  sing,  sir,"  said  Catharine,  who  had  heard  the 
count  speak  very  plain  English  once  during  the  evening, 
while  a  little  warm  on  the  merits  of  a  favorite  racer. 

"  Ah,  vous  nous  chantez  pas — quelle  pitie  ! — mais — but 
— you  do  dance — ah,  oui,  vous  dancez — you  valtze  ?" 

"  I  do  not  waltz." 

"  Non  !  ah,  well,  mais,  you  moost  speak  de  Italian." 

"  I  read,  but  do  not  speak  Italian." 

"  Ah,  mon  dieu  !  pourquoi  vouz  ne  parlez  1 'Italian,  all 
de  young  ladi  speak  de  Italian."  And  without  waiting 
for  a  reply  to  his  last  question,  the  count  abruptly  ended 
the  conversation,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  seated  him- 
self by  the  Archers. 

"  Dat  young  ladi,  Miss,  vat  you  call  her  ?  elle  est  very 
pretty,  mais  elle — she  is  not  accomplished." 

Laura  Matilda  whispered  behind  her  fan,  the  count 
shrugged  his  shoulders  higher  than  .  before,  twirled  his 
mustache,  and  darted  a  very  significant  look  at  Catharine, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  know  who  you  are,  and  don't  won- 
der that  you  neither  sing,  nor  waltz,  nor  speak  Italian." 
Catharine  smiled,  and  quietly  pursued  the  conversation 
with  Lester,  which  had  been  interrupted  by  the  imperti- 
nent inquiries  of  the  count.  The  Misses  Archer  displayed 
their  high  breeding  during  the  evening,  by  treating  the 
governess  with  silent  contempt,  tittering  audibly  when  she 
received  attentions  from  any  of  the  gentlemen,  and  talking 
very  loudly  in  French  instead  of  English. 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  J.11? 

On  their  return  home  they  were  eagerly  questioned  by 
their  mother  as  to  the  occurrences  of  the  evening. 

"  La,  ma,"  said  Laura  Matilda,  "  I  don't  believe  Mrs. 
Clinton  is  any  great  things  after  all;  only  to  think  of  her 
keeping  company  with  schoolmasters,  and  allowing  the 
governess  to  remain  in  the  parlor  when  there  was  com- 
pany present." 

"  You  know,  my  dear,  Mrs.  Clinton  can  afford  to  conde- 
scend ;  people  know  perfectly  well  who  she  is ;  and  she 
acts  with  entire  independence  in  all  matters.  I  hope  you 
were  civil  to  those  people,  meeting  them  as  you  did  at  her 
house,  although  anywhere  else  I  would  not  have"  you  take 
the  least  notice  of  them." 

"  Indeed,  ma,  we  did  not  speak  to  Catharine  Clayton  at 
all ;  and  as  soon  as  we  found  out  that  Mr.  Lester  was  a 
eclioolniaster,  we  left  him  to  be  entertained  by  the  gov- 
er less,  who  was  a  far  more  suitable  companion  for  him 
than  we  were." 

"  What  did  you  say  his  name  was  ?" 

"  Lester." 

"  Why,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  was  the  same  person 
Mrs.  Kiagsland  told  me  about  to-day,  and  if  what  she  says 
be  true,  I'm  sorry  you  did  not  play  your  cards  better,  and 
treat  him  more  politely." 

"  Why,  what  did  she  say,  ma  ?" 

"  Oh,  she  told  me  a  long  story  about  a  gentleman  who 
came  here  from  England — " 

"  Lester  is  English;  I  found  that  out,"  said  Maria 
T,rcsa,  interrupting  her  mother. 

"  Who  came  here  from  England,"  resumed  Mrs.  Archer, 
"  a  few  years  ago ;  that  he  was  the  second  son  of  an  im- 
mensely wealthy  family  and  that  his  father  wished  him  to 


120  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

enter  either  the  army  or  the  church  ;  this  the  young  man 
refused,  saying  he  disliked  the  army,  and  would  never 
desecrate  the  church  by  using  the  holy  office  of  a  deacon, 
for  which  he  felt  himself  unqualified,  as  the  stepping-stone 
to  preferment;  and  so,  after  some  angry  words  from  his 
father,  and  provoking  taunts  from  his  brother,  he  left 
home  and  came  to  the  United  States,  and  was  now  in  New 
York,  employed  as  a  classical  teacher  in  Mr.  Elwood's 
Academy." 

"  But  how  came  she  to  know  all  this,  ma  ?" 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Dashwood,  who  arrived  in  the  last  steam- 
er, told  her  the  whole  story,  and  Mrs.  Kingsland  days  it 
.may  be  relied  upon,  for  that  Mrs.  D.,  while  in  England, 
spent  a  few  days  with  Lester's  aunt,  a  lady  of  distinction ; 
but  that  is  not  all,  he  is  entitled  to  a  large  fortune  at  the 
death  of  his  grandfather,  who  is  old  and  infirm,  and  who 
wishes  his  grandson  to  return  to  England.  Edward  Les- 
ter, Mrs.  Kingsland  calls  him." 

"  Yes,  sure  enough,  his  name's  Edward,  for  I  heard 
Julia  Clinton  call  him  so." 

"  What  fools  you  were,  girls,  to  act  as  you  did.  He's 
sure  of  the  fortune  from  his  grandfather,  and  if  his  father 
and  his  brother  die,  he  succeeds  to  a  title ;  now,  if  you 
had  but  played  your  cards  well,  both  of  you  might  have 
married  titles !  Only  think  of  it !  What  would  Susan 
Jones  say  then,  with  her  six  ugly  daughters  on  hand,  any 
one  of  whom  would  be  thankful  for  an  offer  ?" 

"  Well,  ma,"  said  Laura  Matilda,  for  whom  all  this 
was  more  particularly  meant,  "  well  ma,  can't  we  manage 
to  ask  him  here,  and  make  up  for  it  all  ?  You  know  my 
birth-day  comes  next  month,  when  we  are  to  have  the  fan- 
cy ball ;  and  you  know,  too,  that  I  am  to  be  a  shepherdess ; 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  121 

now,  as  the  count,  is  almost  as  good  as  engaged  to  Moll, 
I  shall  not  dare  ask  him  to  be  my  attendant  shepherd,  so 
I  shall  contrive  to  get  Lestei-.  Let  ine  alone  for  manag- 
ing. I  shall  be  on  the  look  out  for  him  in  Broadway. 
Oh,  let  me  alone,  I'll  nod  my  head  very  gracefully,  and 
smile  very  sweetly,  so  as  to  show  my  teeth,  which  you 
often  say,  ma,  are  the  prettiest  things  about  me.  I  know 
the  secret  of  catching  the  beaux;  every  man  has  vanity, 
and  likes  to  receive  attentions  from  a  girl  of  spirit  and 
fashion;  and  I  dare  say  Mr.  Edward  Lester  will  be  as 
well  pleased  as  any  one  to  be  saluted  in  Broadway  by  the 
belle  of  Washington  Place." 

Mrs.  Archer,  forgetting  all  the  admonitions  of  Lord 
Chesterfield,  laughed  outright  at  the  sallies  of  her  daugh- 
ter, and  began  to  speculate  upon  the  probability  of  having 
both  weddings  come  off  at  once,  and  the  eclat  that  would 
attend  them. 

The  second  day  after  this  conversation,  as  the  carriage 
of  the  Archers  was  slowly  passi^'  through  the  upper  part 
of  the  city,  Laura  Matilda  espied  the  schoolmaster.  She 
nodded,  but  he  did  not  heed  her.  This  was  too  bad,  but 
the  lady  was  not  easily  daunted,  and  putting  her  head  out 
of  the  window  she  bowed,  and  smiled — "  Good  morning, 
Mr.  Lester  " — her  hand  was  on  the  check-string,  "  when 
he  stops,  I  will  ask  him  to  take  a  drive  with  us — good 
morning,  Mr.  Lester."  He  turned,  looked  up  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  there  was  no  smile  on  his  face,  not  even  a  glance 
of  recognition,  as  he  bowed  coldly,  and  walked  on. 

"  Well,  Laura,  you've  made  a  pretty  fool  of  yourself 
with  that  John  Bull ;  I'm  really  ashamed  of  you." 

"  Ashamed   of  me !     I've   done   nothing  you  need  be 
ashamed  of,  let  me  tell  you.    Indeed,  Moll,  you  had  better 
6 


122  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

look  at  home,  and  think  of  all  your  plans  for  winning  the 
count." 

"  He  was  a  prize  worth  planning  for,  but  that  surly 
Englishman — I've  no  patience  with  you." 

"  Yes,  I  grant  you,  if  ugliness  is  worth  planning  for,  if 
ignorance  is  worth  planning  for ;  didn't  he  try  at  first  to 
pass  himself  off  for  an  Italian  ?  But  he  knew  too  little  of 
the  language  for  that,  and  then  he  turned  Frenchman,  as 
that  was  an  easier  part  to  play.  I  never  look  at  that  re- 
treating forehead  of  his,  and  the  lower  part  of  his  face, 
covered  all  over  with  horrid  ugly  hair,  but  I  think  of  a 
baboon  I  saw  once  in  a  menagerie." 

"'  Ma,  listen  to  her,"  said  Maria  Teresa,  who  was  crying 
with  vexation,  "  can't  you  make  her  stop  ?" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  I  beg,  Laura,"  said  the  mother, 
"  and  do  you,  Maria,  stop  crying,  for  your  looks  will  bo 
none  the  better  at  the  opera  to-night,  if  you  make  your 
appearance  with  red  eyes ;  you  must  bathe  them  with  rose 
water ;  this  will  subdue  the  inflammation.  Now,  no  more 
crying,  I  beg  of  you." 

They  had  reached  home,  and  were  soon  in  the  midst 
of  cosmetics  and  perfumes,  dresses  and  ornaments,  folly 
and  fashion. 

"I  told  you  how  it  would  be,  Laura,"  said  Maria 
Archer  to  her  sister,  who  stood,  about  a  week  after  the 
carriage  adventure,  tearing  a  billet  to  pieces  ;  "  I  told  you 
John  Bull  would  never  stoop  to  play  the  part  of  Corydon 
to  your  Phyllis  at  the  fancy  ball." 

"  Edward  Lester's  a  fool,  but  he's  not  the  only  man  in 
the  world,  thank  Heaven  !" 

"  Better  luck  next  time,  Laura.  Addio,  Sorella ;  I  drive 
with  the  count  to-day." 


CATHARINE      CLAYTJN.  123 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HAPPINESS. 

IT  was  a  pleasant  day  in  summer,  and,  in  the  apart- 
ments of  Mrs.  Clayton,  Amy  was  busily  employed  ar- 
ranging everything  in  the  most  tasteful  manner. 

The  snowy  curtains  were  gracefully  draped  over  the 
windows  of  the  small  front  parlor,  and  from  behind  their 
folds  came  the  scent  of  roses  and  geraniums,  which  had 
been  carefully  cultivated  in  pretty  flower-pots,  and  bloomed 
as  brightly  as  if  they  were  the  pride  of  some  gay  parterre. 
On  the  table  were  fresh  flowers,  simple  flowers,  for  Amy 
could  not  purchase  those  that  were  rare ;  but  who  that  saw 
her  heart's  ease,  and  double  larkspur,  and  pinks,  and  mig- 
nonette, that  "  fragrant  weed,"  grouped  together  with  a 
few  roses,  and  sprigs  of  lavender,  and  verbena,  who  that 
saw  these  could  wish  for  anything  rarer  or  prettier  ?  Over 
one  of  the  windows,  in  the  back  room,  were  trained  morn- 
ing glories,  and  scarlet  runners,  and  the  branches  of  a 
large  mulberry,  which  grew  beside  the  house,  had  been 
trained  over  the  other,  so  that  it  formed  a  beautiful  drap- 
ery, shutting  out  the  heat  and  the  too  strong  glare  of 
light,  while  it  admitted  every  breeze.  In  each  window 
hung  a  cage  with  a  canary,  and  the  birds  trilled  forth 
their  matin  and  even  song  in  the  shadow  of  the  bright 
green  leaves. 

"  0 !  I  am  sure  Catharine  will  like  these  branches  over 
the  window ;  and  how  surprised  she  will  be  to  see  the 


124  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

morning  glories  so  high,  and  these  flowers  01.  the  table — 
if  I  could  only  think  of  something  else  she  would  like — 
can  you,  mother  ?  I  love  to  do  everything  that  will 
please  her." 

"  She  is  always  pleased  with  what  you  do  for  her, 
Amy." 

"  I  know  it,  mother — but  she  is  so  good,  and  I  love  her 
so  dearly,  that  I  can't  do  half  enough  for  her.  0,  if  I 
were  a  fairy  godmother !  Catharine  should  have  every- 
thing she  wished,  without  asking  for  it." 

Mrs.  Clayton  smiled  at  Amy's  earnestness.  Timid, 
truthful,  and  impulsive,  warm-hearted  and  generous,  Amy 
looked  up  to  her  sister  as  to  a  superior  being,  and  loved 
her  with  the  strong  and  disinterested  love  of  a  young  and 
confiding  heart. 

In  the  evening,  Catherine  and  William  were  both  to  bo 
at  home,  and  this  was  the  secret  of  all  Amy's  prepara- 
tions. Mrs.  Clayton  had  that  morning  received  a  letter, 
the  contents  of  which  she  wished  to  communicate  to  her 
children,  and  Amy  had  gone  to  them  early  in  the  day, 
with  a  request  from  their  mother  to  meet  at  home  in  the 
afternoon. 

"  They  are  coming  now,  William  and  Catharine  to- 
gether. There  they  are,  mother,  just  turning  the  corner 
— I'll  run  and  have  the  door  open  for  them  !"  and  Arny 
ran  and  held  it  open  until  they  reached  the  house. 

"  Dear  mother !  how  charmingly  it  looks  here !"  ex- 
claimed Catharine.  "  How  beautiful  these  flowers  are  ! 
And  look,  William,  at  these  back  windows,  covered  with 
vines  and  branches.  This  is  some  of  your  work,  Amy." 

':  Yes,  but  don't  you  think  it  pretty,  Catharine  ?  0; 
when  I'm  rich,  I'll  have  all  sorts  of  rare  and  handsome 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  125 

» 

flowers,  and  birds,  and  pictures,  and  books ;  and  mother 
shall  have  nothing  to  do  but  read  all  day  long ;  and 
William  shall  have  a  study,  where  he  may  sit  by  himself 
and  write  his  sermons ;  and  you,  Catharine,  shall  have 
the  handsomest  garden,  and  the  choicest  engravings  and 
books ;  and  I — I'll  have  a  sweet  little  room,  and  a  rose- 
wood writing-desk,  and  a  gold  pen,  and  I'll  write  poetry. 
0,  how  happy  we  shall  all  be  !" 

The  little  party  laughed  at  Amy's  ideas  of  happiness, 
and  her  mother  "  wondered  whether  a  young  poetess 
could  arrange  a  tea-table  ?"  Through  Amy's  mind  had 
been  flitting  visions  of  splendid  apartments,  and  many 
servants  moving  noiselessly  at  the  nod  of  the  mistress  of 
the  mansion,  and  she  could  not  forbear  smiling  when,  in 
a  moment  after,  she  found  herself  in  the  plain,  neat  base- 
ment of  a  small  house,  with  the  hands  which,  in  imagina- 
tion, had  been  guiding  the  golden  pen,  making  the  fire, 
hanging  on  the  tea-kettle,  and,  while  waiting  for  it  to  boil, 
cutting  bread  and  butter,  and  arranging  the  table  for  tea. 
But  love  lightens  all  labor.  Love  throws  a  rose  hue  over 
the  common  things  of  common  life.  Love  for  wife  and 
little  one  sweetens  the  toil  of  the  poor  laborer ;  love  for 
the  husband  of  her  youth  gives  buoyancy  to  the  step  of 
the  wife,  as  she  treads  the  daily  round  of  domestic  duties  ; 
the  thought  that  it  is  for  him,  that  his  care  will  be  less- 
ened, or  his  comfort  and  happiness  increased  by  her  exer- 
tions, will  make  burdens,  otherwise  too  heavy  to  be  borne, 
light  as  the  idle  gossamer  that  floats  upon  the  summei 
breeze ;  and  love  for  t/iem,  for  mother,  sister,  brother, 
made  Amy's  basement  brilliant  as  a  banqueting  room  in 
a  queen's  palace  ! 

Meantime,  Catharine  walked  from  room  to  room,  pluck 


126  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

ing  leaves  from  the  geraniums,  and  listening  to  the  birds, 
while  her  heart  swelled  with  gratitude. 

"  I  am  thinking,  mother,  what  a  pleasant  contrast  this 
house  affords  to  the  one  we  last  occupied,  and  wonder  it 
has  never  occurred  to  benevolent  and  wealthy  individuals 
to  build  small  and  convenient  houses,  that  might  be  rented 
to  persons  of  moderate  means.  It  is  true,  the  money  so 
invested  would  not  bring  to  the  capitalist  such  large  re- 
turns as  if  it  were  expended  in  rearing  dwellings  for  those 
more  favored  by  fortune ;  but  a  far  richer  reward  than  a 
high  per  centage  would  be  his — the  sublime  consciousness 
of  doing  good  !  The  knowledge  that  he  had  been  instru- 
mental in  giving  fresh  air,  and  green  grass,  and  a  few  trees, 
to  the  sick  and  pining  heart,  which  could  neither  afford  to 
leave  town  in  the  pleasant  summer  months,  nor  pay  the 
rent  demanded  for  these  things  in  the  city  !  It  must  be 
that  such  a  method  of  benefiting  their  fellows  has  never 
occurred  to  charitable  people,  who  give  large  suras  to  so- 
cieties, and  therefore  cannot  be  accused  of  wanting  benevo- 
lence. It  is  a  pity  they  do  not  go  more  abroad  among 
the  mass  of  the  poorer  and  middling  classes,  and  see  how 
many,  with  pure  tastes  and  refined  feelings,  are  compelled 
to  live  in  lanes  and  alleys,  in  basements  and  attics — how 
many  such  are  compelled  to  come  in  contact  with  ruder 
natures,  because  they  cannot  pay  a  high  rent.  If  houses 
were  built  with  small,  neat  apartments,  and,  instead  of 
lumbering  up  the  lot  with  rear  buildings,  if  it  were  left 
for  a  grass  plat  and  a  flower  garden,  what  luxuries  would 
these  be  to  the  lovers  of  cleanliness  and  quiet.  But,  alas  ! 
the  rich  do  not  think  of  thus  benefiting  their  fellow-crea- 
tures." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  only  because  this  method  of  doing  good 


CATHARIJTE     CLAYTON.  127 

has  not  suggested  itself  to  their  minds,  or  been  suggested 
to  them  by  others,"  said  Mrs.  Clayton. 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  Amy's  musi- 
cal voice  telling  that  tea  was  ready,  and  adding, 

"  Come  with  a  good  will, 
Or  come  not  at  all." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  pass  that  off  for  original  poetry, 
do  you,  Amy  ?"  said  William,  who  was  always  trying  to 
teaze  her.  "  If  you  do,  all  the  critics,  I  mean  all  the  boys 
and  girls  in  the  street,  will  convict  you  of  plagiarism,  for 
they  have  sung  or  said  it  from  time  immemorial." 

The  contents  of  the  letter  to  which  we  have  alluded, 
formed  the  subject  of  conversation  during  tea,  and  again 
and  again  each  one  tried  to  conjecture  who  could  be  the 
writer. 

"  I  will  read  it  once  more,  dear  mother." 

"  Do,  "William ;  you  cannot  read  too  often  what  has 
given  so  much  happiness." 

"  DEAK.  MADAM — Knowing  that  it  was  your  own  wish, 
and  the  desire  of  your  late  esteemed  husband,  that  your 
son,  after  passing  through  college,  should  study  for  the 
ministry,  I  place  at  your  disposal  the  funds  requisite  for 
carrying  your  plans  into  execution.  Let  the  amount  be 
invested  in  any  manner  you  think  safest  and  best ;  and  I 
beg  you  will  have  no  hesitation,  my  dear  madam,  in  mak- 
ing free  use  of  what  comes  to  you  thus  anonymously.  Be- 
lieve me,  with  the  truest  regard,  yours." 

"  0,  who  can  it  be  ?"  said  Catharine ;  "  if  we  only 
knew,  that  we  might  thank  him." 

<(  I  wish  I  could  find  out ;  when  I  am  rich  he  shall  have 
the  handsomest  room  in  my  beautiful  house,  and — " 


128  CATHARINE      CLAYTON. 

"What!  castle  building  again,  Amy  ?  Well,  I  wish 
you  were  rich,  and  then  I  should  not  be  under  any  obliga- 
tion to  a  stranger,"  said  William,  who  sat  holding  the 
letter  in  his  hand,  and  looking  thoughtfully  upon  it. 

"  William,"  said  his  mother,  "  you  are  now  old  enough 
to  decide  for  yourself;  have  you  any  hesitation  in  accept- 
ing this  generous  offer  ?  If  you  have,  say  it  at  once,  and 
we  will  keep  the  money  until  we  can  restore  it  to  the  right- 
ful owner." 

"  I  hardly  know  what  to  do,  mother,  it  seems  so  like 
charity.  Although  it  is  the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart  to 
go  to  college,  and  then  study  for  the  ministry,  yet  I  would 
rather  forego  this  wish,  and  work  at  the  lowest  employ- 
ment, than  be  looked  upon  as  a  pensioner  on  any  man's 
bounty.  I  have  often  thought,  that  if  I  had  completed 
my  college  course,  I  might  have  entered  the  Theological 
Seminary  as  a  beneficiary,  and  then,  when  I  obtained  a 
parish,  I  would  repay  all  the  cost  of  my  education,  and 
preach  a  quarterly  sermon  in  aid  of  the  funds  of  the  insti- 
tution." 

"  Who's  castle  building  now,  I  wonder  ?"  said  Amy, 
looking  with  mock  gravity  into  her  brother's  face. 

"  I  am  glad  of  one  thing,  however,"  William  continued, 
"  that  the  students  are  no  longer  called  beneficiaries,  but 
are  entitled  to  a  scholarship  as  a  reward  of  merit.  It  is 
said,  '  What's  in  a  name  ?'  but  I  think  there's  a  great  deal 
in  it,  and  I  never  can  forget  the  remark  I  heard  made  at 
the  last  commencement.  There  was  a  lady  near  me  who 
was  praising  the  abilities  of  a  young  man  who  had  just 
received  his  testimonials,  when  another  lady  sneeringly 
remarked,  '  0,  he's  nothing  but  a  charity  scholar  !'  " 

"  My  dear  William,"  said  Mrs.  Clayton,  "  I  regret  that 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON..  .29 

I 

such  a  silly  remark  should  have  made  so  strong  An  im- 
pression. Many  of  the  most  pious,  exemplary,  anu  useful 
men  in  the  ministry  have  received  their  education  in  this 
manner.  It  is  no  fault  of  theirs  if  the  gift  of  wealth  has 
been  withheld  from  them ;  they  have  that  which  money 
cannot  buy,  talents,  and  godlike  intellect,  and  it  would  be 
wrong  if  false  pride,  or  dread  of  ill-natured  remarks  from 
the  narrow-minded  and  cold-hearted,  should  make  them 
bury  the  one,  or  neglect  to  cultivate  the  other." 

t:  I  try  to  think  so  too,  mother,  yet  sometimes  proud 
feelings  will  rise  up  in  opposition  to  my  better  judgment ; 
but  in  this  matter,  of  so  much  interest  to  us  all,  I  will  be 
guided  by  you;  now  tell  me  exactly  what  you  think  about 
it?" 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  that  you  should  accept  the  offer ;  nor 
will  you  compromise  your  self-respect  by  so  doing.  It 
has  been  made  in  all  kindness,  and  doubtless  a  refusal 
would  but  pain  the  generous  heart  which  has  sought  to 
befriend  us  with  so  much  delicacy.  If  God  spare  your  life, 
you  may  yet  be  enabled  to  refund  the  amount,  and  thus 
lighten  the  weight  of  obligation,  while  your  heart  remains 
grateful  for  the  kindness.  I  hope  you  will  never  be  of  the 
number  of  those  who  are  ashamed  to  acknowledge  a  favor, 
and  who  repay  the  disinterested  goodness  of  a  friend  by 
neglect  and  ingratitude,  or,  what  is  worse,  depreciate  the 
motives  of  those  who  could  have  no  possible  interest  to 
promote  in  serving  them." 

•'  Dear  mother,  let  it  be  as  you  wish,  and  I  promise  you 
that  I  will  endeavor  to  be  the  most  diligent  scholar  within 
the  walls  of  the  college.  What  are  you  thinking  about 
all  this  time,  Catharine?  you  have  not  said  one  word  since 
mother  and  I  began  to  speak." 
6* 


130  CATHARINE      CLATTON. 

"  I  wished  that  mother  might  be  heard  without  interrup- 
tion, but  now  that  your  affairs  are  satisfactorily  settled,  I 
will  communicate  something  nearly  as  strange  as  the  con- 
tents of  the  letter." 

"  What  is  it,  sister,  what  is  it  ?"  said  Amy  quickly.  "  I 
know  it  must  be  something  good,  you  look  so  pleased  about  it." 

"  It  relates  to  you  Amy." 

«  To  me  !  0,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?" 

"  Let  me  see — perhaps  some  one  will  send  me  a  mocking- 
bird, you  know  I  want  one  so  badly — no  ? — well,  maybe 
somebody  will  give  me  all  Miss  Edgeworth's,  or  Miss 
Sedgwick's  works,  and  if  they  do — you  know  those  old 
book  shelves  of  ours — well — I  have  some  handsome  green 
paper,  and  the  other  day  I  found  some  of  the  narrow  gilt 
bordering  we  used  to  have,  and  I  will  paste  them  on  the 
shelves,  and  put  in  a  new  green  ribbon,  and  it  will  do  to 
hang  in  that  corner :  I  hope  it  may  be  the  books  !" 

"  Perhaps  it's  the  gold  pen  to  write  poetry  with,"  sug- 
gested William. 

"  No,  it  is  none  of  these,  and  as  you  cannot  guess  I  must 
tell  you.  Mrs  Clinton  desired  me  to  ask  mother,  if  she 
would  allow  Amy  to  come  every  day  to  her  house,  and  re- 
ceive instructions  with  Ida  and  Emily.  Emily  is  about 
your  own  age,  Amy,  and  is  a  very  lovely,  amiable  little  girl. 
What  do  you  say,  mother  ?  Will  you  trust  Amy  to  me  ? 
Do  you  think  I  can  be  the  '  good  governess  ?'  " 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Clayton  was  silent.  Amy,  mistak- 
ing the  cause  of  her  mother's  emotion,  threw  her  arms 
about  her  neck,  and  whispered,  "  Don't  you  wish  me  to 
leave  you,  mother  ?  You  will  be  alone  nearly  all  day  if  I 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  131 

t 

«  Would  you  like  it,  Amy  ?" 

"  0,  of  all  things,"  said  the  child,  clapping  her  hands, 
"  but  will  you  not  be  lonesome  ?  I  can't  go  if  you  are, 
mother." 

"  No,  my  love,  I  will  not  be  lonesome,  my  heart  has  too 
many  pleasant  thoughts  to  dwell  upon.  God  has  been  very 
good  to  us,  my  children.  In  our  greatest  poverty  and  des- 
titution, the  hand  of  His  protecting  providence  was  ever 
upholding  us.  In  the  darkest  hours  of  trial,  the  light  of 
his  love  sent  a  ray  of  hope  to  cheer  our  almost  desponding 
hearts.  God  has  been  very  good  to  us,  and  may  our  fu- 
ture lives  be  devoted  to  his  service." 

Twilight  deepened  into  night,  and  the  moonbeams  stole 
in  through  the  vine  leaves,  and  rested  on  Amy's  beautiful 
face  as  she  sat  with  her  head  reclining  on  her  mother's  lap. 
The  soul  of  the  young  girl  was  in  dreamland.  That  was 
a  happy  night  in  the  widow's  dwelling. 


CHAPTEE  X. 

THE     FANCY     BALL. 

CROWDS  of  fashionables  were  thronging  to  the  illum- 
inated mansion  of  the  Archers.  It  was  the  night  of  the 
fancy  ball,  and  all  the  world  was  expected  to  be  present. 

There  were  kings  and  peasants,  monks  and  soldiers, 
princesses  and  flower-girls,  ballad- singers  and  sisters  of 
charity,  noble  lords  and  stately  dames  of  the  olden  time, 
and  simple  shepherd  lads  and  lasses.  Among  these  latter 
was  Laura  Archer,  leading  about  a  pet  lamb  tied  with  a 


182  CATHARINE     CLAYTDN. 

blue  ribbon,  in  the  manner  in  which  ladies  lead  their  lap 
dogs.  She  had  hesitated  for  some  time  between  a  lamb 
and  a  goat  and  pipe,  a  la  Sterne's  Maria,  But  the  lamb 
at  length  prevailed,  as  she  wanted  a  shepherd  to  attend  her 
with  his  crook.  It  was  for  this  she  had  written,  requesting 
the  presence  of  Edward  Lester.  In  place  of  him  might 
be  seen  an  ungainly  man,  with  dyed  whiskers,  and  a  jaunty 
wig,  using  his  crook  as  a  walking-stick  to  help  him  follow 
the— 

"  Snow-white  mountain  lamb,  and  a  maiden  at  its  side." 

Maria  Teresa,  in  her  robe  of  ermine  and  velvet,  with 
the  diadem  on  her  brow,  looked,  her  mother  thought,  ex- 
actly like  the  picture  of  Queen  Victoria  she  had  seen  in  a 
window  down  Broadway ;  and  the  count,  the  divine  count, 
was  certainly  handsomer  and  more  like  a  prince  thaa 
Prince  Albert  himself  (whom  he  personated)  could  be,  as 
the  latter  was  nothing  but  a  German,  witk  red  hair  and 
sandy  whiskers. 

We  will  not  stop  to  detail  the  ridiculous  ^things  that  were 
said  and  done,  by  many  who  had  no  conception  whatever 
of  the  characters  they  represented.  However,  bating  some 
little  jealousies  and  heart-burnings,  the  evening  passed  off 
gaily  enough,  and  after  her  guests  had  taken  their  depar- 
ture, Mrs.  Archer  sought  her  husband  to  detail  her  tri- 
umph. 

"  But  where  are  the  girls  ?  I  must  see  Maria,  to  tell 
her  how  well  she  looked.  Depend  upon  it,  Mr.  Archer, 
that  girl  will  be  a  princess  yet.  I  begin  to  think  the  count 
is  not  quite  the  thing  for  her,  and  as  he  professed  his  will- 
ingness to  marry  either  of  the  girls  when  he  first  oame 
here,  I  will  try  and  play  my  cards  so  that  he  will  yet  take 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  133 

t 

Laura.  When  we  go  abroad  next  year,  I  have  no  doubt 
but  some  rich  Italian  prince  will  fall  in  love  with  Maria, 
and  then,  only  think  of  it,  Mr.  Archer !  one  daughter  a 
princess,  and  the,other  a  countess  !  Bless  my  stars  !  What 
will  Susan  Jones  say  then  ?" 

Mr.  Archer  had  long  ceased  to  expostulate  ;  uttering  a 
half  groan,  he  turned  away  from  his  wife,  and,  sick  and  dis- 
pirited, threw  himself  on  the  bed  in  his  own  room,  and  was 
soon  buried  in  a  dull,  heavy,  unrefreshing  sleep. 

Laura  was  with  her  mother,  but  Maria  could  nowhere 
be  found.  On  examining  her  room,  they  found  the  drawers 
in  disorder.  From  them,  and  from  her  wardrobe,  most  of 
her  valuable  clothing  had  been  taken,  and  all  her  jewelry 
was  gone.  On  a  table  lay  two  or  three  lines,  hurriedly 
written  with  a  pencil,  which  informed  them  that  she  had 
eloped  with  her  beloved  count.  Mrs.  Archer  did  not  wake 
her  husband,  indeed  she  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  do 
so,  and  it  was  not  until  the  next  morning  at  breakfast  that 
he  heard  his  daughter  was  missing.  What  could  have  been 
the  girl's  motive  ?  Her  mother  had  all  along  forwarded 
her  wishes,  and  her  father  was  not  allowed  to  interfere  in 
the  matter.  True,  whenever  he  had  been  appealed  to,  he 
gave  a  flat  denial.  But  what  of  that  ?  Both  mother  and 
daughters  were  too  well  accustomed  to  have  their  own  way 
to  be  in  the  least  daunted.  Mrs.  Archer  could  not  forgive 
Maria  for  putting  it  out  of  her  power  to  have  a  splendid 
wedding,  and  the  only  thing  that  soothed  her  wounded 
pride  was,  that  her  daughter  had  ran  away  with  a  count ! 

In  about  a  week  a  letter  was  received  from  the  missing 
damsel,  which  ran  as  follows  : 

"  DEAR  MAMMA— You  know  I  never  could  bear  the  dull, 
old-fashioned  way  of  getting  married,  without  any  trouble 


• 


134  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

at  all,  everybody  consenting  but  papa,  (who,  as  you  say, 
'  is  as  good  as  nobody.')  No,  no,  I  am  fond  of  romance — 
and  so  is  my  divine  Antonio — and  we  arranged  a  pretty 
little  plan  between  us.  On  the  night  of  the  ball,  the  count's 
carriage  drove  to  the  opposite  ;iide  of  the  street,  at  a  short 
distance  from  our  house,  and  I  repeatedly  stole  away  from 
the  company,  and  threw  out  several  parcels,  which  were 
caught  by  the  count's  servant,  who  was  standing  on  the  side- 
walk ready  to  receive  them.  Just  before  the  ball  broke 
up,  I  contrived  to  muffle  myself  and  steal  out  unperceived. 
I  was  soon  joined  by  my  Antonio.  We  drove  to  the  house 
of  a  clergyman,  roused  him  from  his  slumbers,  had  the 
ceremony  performed,  and  left  New  York  in  the  morning. 

"  Wasn't  that  a  dear,  delightful,  romantic  way  of  get- 
ting married  ?  You  know  it  is  three  months  since  the 
count  first  visited  our  house,  and  I  thought  I  knew  him 
perfectly ;  but,  like  Lucy  Clark,  who  married  her  husband 
after  a  week's  courtship,  I  can  say,  '  Antonio  improves  on 
acquaintance.'  Her  husband's  name  wasn't  Antonio,  though 
— it  was  Jeremiah !  Horrid !  Jeremiah  Jarnigan  !  Tell 
Lolly  she  may  lay  as  many  traps  as  she  pleases,  now  the 
count  is  safe.  I  hope  she'll  be  more  fortunate  the  next 
time  she  puts  her  head  out  of  the  carriage  window. 
"  Your  loving  and  dutiful, 

"  MARIA  TERESA  BANDINI." 

"  I  hope  to  heaven  she'll  get  enough  of  him  yet !"  was 
the  kind  response  of  Laura  to  her  sister's  letter. 

Mr.  Archer  was  the  only  one  who  seemed  to  feel  the 
loss  of  his  daughter.  His  heart,  unlike  his  wife's,  was  de- 
void of  vanity  and  ambition  ;  and  had  his  children  sought 
his  kindness,  or  even  repaid  what  he  bestowed  without  their 


»          CATHARINE     CVMTCN.  135 

seeking,  they  would  have  found  him  a  fond  and  indulgent 
parent.  But  during  their  tender  years  his  heart  had  beer 
engrossed  by  the  accumulation  of  wealth,  and  his  daugh 
ters  were  entirely  under  the  control  of  their  mother.  H« 
often  comforted  himself  with  the  thought  that  they  were 
too  young  to  receive  any  impressions,  and  that  when  thej 
grew  older  he  would  take  more  charge  of  their  education 
and  make  them  what  he  wished.  But  when  they  had 
grown  older,  and  he  attempted  to  use  the  least  parental 
authority,  the  young  ladies  rebelled  and  ran  to  mamma, 
who  always  took  the  part  of  her  darlings,  and  in  their 
hearing  reproached  Mr.  Archer  for  his  undue  severity.  By 
degrees,  he  became  weary  of  these  repeated  conflicts,  and 
left  both  mother  and  daughters  to  themselves,  while  they 
regarded  him  as  a  mere  money-making  machine,  of  no  use 
in  the  world  but  to  coin  gold  for  their  extravagance.  As 
for  Mrs.  Archer,  she  had  the  consolation  of  telling  the 
friends  who  came  to  condole  with  her,  "  that  if  the  dear 
child  had  eloped,  it  was  with  no  vulgar  person,  but  a  real 
count" — and  Laura  rejoiced,  in  her  heart  to  be  rid  of  her 
sister. 

It  was  the  gay  season  at  Saratoga,  and  Maria  and  her 
dear  Antonio  were  there,  figuring  among  the  fashionables, 
gay  with  the  gayest,  and  dashing  with  the  dashiest. 

But  already  had  there  been  some  matrimonial  tete-a- 
tetes,  in  which  the  lady  pouted  and  wept,  and  the  gentle- 
man forgot  his  soft  tone  and  broken  English.  Many 
changes  were  rung  on  the  word  money  during  these  dis- 
cussions, the  count  swearing  that  his  funds  were  getting 
low,  and  that  his  wife  must  write  to  her  father.  Maria, 
although  spoiled  and  self-willed,  had  not  the  cool  assurance 
of  her  sister,  and  forbore  complying  with  her  husband'a 


136  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

request.  At  length  they  returned  to  New  York,  and  took 
lodgings  in  a  fashionable  hotel.  Here  the  count  compelled 
his  wife  to  write  a  note  addressed  to  her  mother,  but  which 
he  hoped  might  fall  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Archer  himself. 
Unfortunately,  it  was  not  received  by  either,  but  by  Laura, 
who,  to  her  other  accomplishments,  added  those  of  break- 
ing seals,  and  imitating  various  handwritings.  She  an- 
swered it  in  the  name  of  her  father,  pouring  a  torrent  of 
wrath  on  the  unhappy  Maria,  commanding  her  never  to 
dare  write,  or  trouble  him  in  any  way  again,  adding  that 
he  had  disinherited  and  cast  her  off  forever  ! 

The  rage  of  the  count  on  receiving  this  answer  knew  no 
bounds,  and  after  venting  his  passion  on  his  poor  wife  in  a 
harsher  manner  than  he  had  ever  done  before,  he  deliber- 
ately went  to  the  bureau,  took  out  a  valuable  gold  watch 
and  chain,  a  number  of  rings,  and  other  costly  trinkets, 
and  began  arranging  them  in  separate  boxes.  Maria  sat 
trembling,  silent  and  tearful,  not  daring  to  speak  lest  he 
should  again  become  enraged ;  but  when  she  saw  him  put 
them  in  his  pocket,  fasten  his  coat,  and  walk  toward  the 
door,  she  could  contain  herself  no  longer. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Antonio  ?  Pray,  do  not  take 
those  things  from  me — pray,  do  not — leave  me  at  least 
that  diamond  ring — oh,  leave  me  that ! — it  was  papa's 
present  on  my  last  birth-day." 

The  weeping  girl  clung  to  his  arm,  but  he  rudely  shook 
her  off,  and  in  a  harsh  tone,  and  with  a  vile  oath,  cursed 
both  her  and  her  papa,  and  flung  himself  violently  out  of 
the  room. 

Maria  was  alone — alone  in  her  destitution — alone  in  her 
despair  !  She  was  reaping  the  bitter  fruits  of  her  ingrati- 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  137 

tude  and  folly,  and  the  tempter  was  whispering  dark  and 
sinful  thoughts  to  her  unhappy  heart. 

"  I  cannot  live  !  I  will  not  live  !"  she  exclaimed,  start- 
ing to  her  feet.  v  "  No  one  cares  for  me — I  will  die,  and 
end  this  misery  at  once  !" 

Again  she  seated  herself  and  again  rose.  This  time 
she  opened  the  window  and  looked  out.  There  was  total 
darkness,  for  the  moon  was  eclipsed,  and  she  shuddered 
with  fear  as  she  closed  the  window,  and  stood  with  her 
hands  clasped  to  her  burning  forehead.  There  was  a 
knocking  at  the  door — she  started,  and,  in  a  hollow  voice, 
askei  the  person  to  come  in.  It  was  only  her  maid,  who 
came  to  ask  if  she  had  rung  the  bell.  On  being  answered 
in  the  negative,  the  woman  still  remained,  and  Maria 
trembled  and  turned  away  her  face,  thinking  her  purpose 
could  be  detected  there ;  so  true  it  is  that  "  guilt  makes 
cowards  of  us  all."  The  servant,  a  kind-hearted  Scotch 
lassie,  after  looking  earnestly  at  her  for  a  moment  said — 

"  Ye  dinna  leuk  ow're  weel,  me  leddy ;  wull  ye  tell  me 
gif  there's  onything  I  can  do  for  ye  ?" 

"  Nothing,  Maggie.  I've  a  headache,  and  feel  a  little 
nervous,  that  is  all." 

With  a  respectful  and  well-meant  familiarity,  Maggie 
put  her  hand  on  that  of  her  mistress. 

"  Gude  sake  !  but  ye'r  awfu'  cauld.  I'll  rin  doon  an' 
ask  a  wee  hanfu'  o'  meal  frae  th'  cook,  an'  mak  ye  a  wee 
sup  o'  warm  porridge." 

"  Never  mind,  Maggie.  I  thank  you— but  I  could  not 
take  it  now." 

Maggie  was  a  shrewd  observer,  and  had  noticed  that 
her  "  puir  leddy,"  as  she  called  her,  was  unhappy ;  and 
more  than  once  she  had  seen  traces  if  tears  on  her  mia- 


138  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

tress's  check.  She  saw,  too,  that  the  "  puir  leddy  "  was 
left  nearly  all  day  and  all  night  to  the  solitude  of  her 
own  room,  for  her  husband  not  only  neglected  her  himself, 
but  kept  up  a  perfect  system  of  espionage,  lest  she  should 
communicate  with  the  boarders,  and  perhaps  disclose  .'tis 
infamous  conduct.  In  consequence  of  this  treatment  of 
his  wife,  by  her  master,  Maggie  showed  toward  Maria  a 
tenderness  of  manner  which  was  often  soothing  to  the  irri- 
tated feelings  of  the  friendless  sufferer,  and  which  male 
Maria  permit  the  seeming  freedom  of  the  honest,  war  Ji- 
hearted  girl. 

"  It's  awfu'  mirk  the  night,  an'  ye  bein'  alane  might 
hae  been  frighted  like — an'  nae  wonder  gif  ye  war',  for  I 
hae  thought  o'  naething  but  the  day  o'  judgment  since  I 
leukit  on  the  moon,  an'  saw  it  turn  sae  black  an'  awfu' 
like." 

The  day  of  judgment !  These  words  arrested  Maria's 
attention,  and  gently  dismissing  Maggie,  with  an  assur- 
ance that  she  was  better,  and  would  ring  if  she  requr  ed 
her  services,  she  was  once  more  alone. 

The  day  of  judgment !  Was  there  such  a  day  ?  She 
had  heard  of  it  occasionally  when  lounging  in  church,  ad- 
miring her  own  dress,  or  criticising  her  neighbors ;  but  it 
had  long  been  a  forgotten  sound,  until  Scotch  Maggie 
spoke  it  in  a  tone  of  solemn  earnestness.  Was  there,  or 
rather  would  there  be,  such  a  day  ?  And  would  she  be 
there  ?  Her  every  deed  and  thought  arrayed  before  rhe 
Judge  ?  On  wttht  had  she  but  now  been  thinking  ?  S-  If- 
destruction  !  Horrible  !  Horrible  ! 

Because  her  own  rebellious  and  unsubdued  will  had 
brought  woe  upon  herself — because  her  own  crime  had 
brought  its  own  punishment — she  would  rashly  fling  away 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  139 

the  precious  gift  of  life  with  which  her  Creator  had  en- 
dowed her — would  peril  her  immortal  soul,  and  stand  with 
all  this  load  of  guilt  upon  her  head  at  the  dread  day  of 
judgment !  These  were  the  first  serious  thoughts  that 
had  ever  passed  through  the  poor  girl's  mind,  and  humbled 
and  repentant,  she  involuntarily  fell  on  her  knees,  and 
asked  God  for  pity  and  pardon.  When  her  husband  re- 
turned, she  bore  his  taunts  and  unkindness  with  patience 
and  meekness.  The  good  seed  had  already  been  sown 
which  might  yet  bring  forth  a  plentiful  harvest. 

A  week  or  two  passed  away,  during  which  Maria  en- 
deavored to  calm  and  soothe  her  husband's  irritable 
temper,  but  without  effect,  when,  at  an  early  hour  one 
morning,  a  loud  knocking  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  it 
was  told  the  count  some  gentlemen  wished  to  see  him. 
Hurridly  dressing  himself  he  left  the  room.  His  wife 
heard  a  noise,  and  angry  voices  in  the  hall,  and  with  some 
trepidation  awaited  her  husband's  return  ;  but,  instead  of 
him,  Maggie  entered  and  spoke  to  her  mistress. 

"  Dinna  be  frighted,  yer  leddyship ;  it's  unco  odd, 
but  nae  doot  me  maister  wull  explain  a'  to  yer  sateesfac- 
tion." 

"  What  is  odd,  Maggie  ?  What  was  the  cause  of  the 
noise  I  heard  just  now  ?" 

"  I  canna  weel  tell,  yer  leddyship ;  but  my  maister  has 
gane  oot  verra  airly  th'  morn." 

"  Gone  out !     Where  to  ?     Who  was  with  him  ?" 

"  I  dinna  ken  wha  was  wi'  him — but  they  war  nae  gentle- 
folk, I'm  thinking,  frae  their  leuks." 

"  May  I  speak  with  you  a  moment,  madam  ?"  asked 
the  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  lookup  in  at  the  half-open 
door. 


140  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  Maggie  withdrew,  and,  for  a  few 
moments,  there  was  an  embarassing  silence. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  you  are  fully  aware,  my  dear 
madam,  of  what  occurred  this  morning,"  said  Mr.  Masters, 
hesitatingly. 

"  What  has  occurred  ?  My  maid  informed  me  that  my 
husband — " 

Maria  paused — she  felt  that  whatever  had  taken  place 
must  relate  to  him. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  he  has  been  placed  under  arrest." 

t:  Arrest !  For  what  ?  In  the  name  of  pity  tell  me 
all  at  once  !" 

Mr.  Masters  again  hesitated. 

"  Tell  me,  sir,  I  beg  of  you  !"  said  Maria,  in  agony. 
"  The  reality  cannot  be  more  dreadful  than  this  sus- 
pense." 

"  Various  things  have  been  charged  against  him,  among 
the  rest  swindling  and  forgery  !" 

Maria  fell  as  if  struck  down  by  a  blow,  and,  for  awhile, 
was  unconscious  of  her  wretchedness.  Mr.  Masters  and 
his  excellent  wife  paid  every  attention  to  the  poor  sufferer, 
who,  for  a  few  days,  was  unable  to  leave  her  room.  The 
moment  her  strength  permitted,  she  obtained  permission 
to  visit  the  cell  of  her  husband.  Every  day  she  went  to 
him,  soothing  and  endeavoring  to  comfort  him,  forgetting 
his  past  unkindness,  and  weeping  over  his  present  misfor- 
tunes. Meantime,  the  newspapers  were  filled  with  contra- 
dictory reports,  all,  however,  agreeing  in  denouncing  the 
soi-disant  count  as  a  villain  and  an  imposter.  Some,  not 
content  with  exposing  the  crimes  of  the  husband,  indulged 
in  a  strain  of  ribald  mirth  at  the  expense  of  the  wife,  dis- 
playing their  vulgar  witticism  in  contrasting  the  cells  in 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  141 

the  Hall  of  Detention,  with  the  superb  magnificence  of  a 
nobleman's  palace,  and  wondering  whether  her  ladyship 
admired  the  new  residence  of  her  lord  ? 

Have  the  conductors  of  such  journals  no  human  sym- 
pathies? Have  they  no  mothers,  no  sisters,  no  wives, 
that  they  can  thus  sport  with  the  wretchedness  of  a  wo- 
man ?  Why  will  they  court  the  laugh  of  the  malevolent 
(for  none  other  will  laugh)  by  shooting  poisoned  weapons, 
every  one  of  which  rankles  in  the  heart  of  some  innocent 
victim  connected  by  the  closest  ties  with  the  real  or  sup- 
posed criminal  ?  Have  they  no  fear  of  God,  no  love  for 
man,  in  their  hearts,  that  they  thus  scatter  fire-brands, 
arrows,  and  death,  and  say — "  they  are  in  sport "  ? 

At  length  the  time  appointed  for  the  trial  arrived. 

The  count  was  proved  to  be  an  imposter,  convicted  of 
the  crimes  which  had  been  alleged  against  him,  and  sen- 
tenced to  twenty  years'  confinement  in  the  State  Prison. 

Maria  exerted  herself  to  the  utmost — she  wrote,  peti- 
tioned, did  everything  in  her  power  to  obtain  a  pardon — 
but  it  could  not  be  granted,  for  it  was  proved  on  the  trial 
that  the  convict  had  been  pardoned  not  more  than  two 
years  before. 

The  once  gay  girl,  the  sometime  wretched  wife,  was  now 
utterly  alone,  and  but  for  some  objects  of  value,  which 
had  not  been  observed  by  her  husband  on  the  night  he 
plundered  her  drawer,  she  would  have  been  destitute.  But 
she  no  longer  rebelled — she  felt  that  chastisement  had 
been  good  for  her — her  health,  too,  was  failing — and 
humbled  and  subdued  she  resolved  on  making  one  more 
appeal  to  her  family.  In  terms  of  repentance  and  sorrow 
she  wrote  to  her  father,  and  dreading  her  sister's  influence, 
she  addressed  the  letter  to  his  place  of  business.  Mr 


142  CATHAKINE     CLAYTON. 

Archer,  who  had  been  out  of  the  city,  went  to  her  immediate- 
ly, and  the  first  fond  intercourse  of  their  lives  then  took 
place  between  the  sorrowing  father  and  repentant  child. 

"  You  must  go  home  with  me,  my  dear — you  must  no 
longer  remain  among  strangers." 

"  Dear  father,  although  you  are  so  kind  to  me,  I  am  yet 
afraid  to  meet  my  mother  and  sister ;  from  your  last  letter 
I  was  led  to  believe  that  none  of  you  would  ever  forgive 
me." 

"  What  letter  are  you  talking  about,  child  ?  ' 

"  One  I  received  in  answer  to  a  note  I  sent  you  some 
time  ago." 

"  I  never  received  any  communication  from  you ;  but  I 
see — I  see — "  Mr.  Archer  paused,  and  both  were  silent. 
A  conviction  of  the  truth  flashed  upon  them — the  letter 
had  been  forged  by  Laura  ! 

At  first,  Mrs.  Archer  and  Laura  positively  refused  ad- 
mitting Maria  into  the  house.  She  had  disgraced  the 
family  by  running  away  with  a  fellow  who  was  no  count 
after  all,  but  a  vile  convict  from  the  State  Prison  !  What 
would  Susan  Jones  say  ?  But  in  this  point  Mr.  Archer 
was  firm,  and  her  own  room  was  prepared  for  her  under 
the  superintendence  of  her  father. 

For  a  week  after  her  return  home  Maria  did  not  see 
her  sister ;  and  when  they  met  Laura  taunted  her  most 
bitterly.  As  for  Mrs.  Archer,  all  her  trouble  was  to 
learn  "  what  her  friends  would  say  of  the  affair  ? — and  to 
wonder  if  they  would  visit  her,  after  such  a  disgrace  be- 
falling her  daughter  ?"  But  they  did  visit  her,  for  while 
Maria  was  confined  to  her  chamber,  a  confirmed  invalid, 
her  mother  and  sister  received  and  entertained  their  guests 
in  a  greater  style  of  magnificence  than  ever. 

I 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  143 

Many  an  hour  of  sweet  communion  had  Mr.  Archer 
wiih  his  suffering  child.  He  left  the  counting-room  early 
every  afternoon,  and  passed  the  time  in  her  sick  chamber. 
With  his  own  hands  he  ministered  to  her  wants,  and  she 
wa  tehed  for  his  step  at  the  appointed  time,  and  her  eye 
lig'ited  up  at  his  approach,  and  she  loved  him  with  the 
deep  love  of  an  affectionate  child  for  a  fond  and  revered 
parent. 

Thus  were  these  two  drawn  together  by  sorrow.  Thus 
was  she  taught  the  folly  of  her  former  frivolous  pursuits, 
and  thus  did  he  find  one  frail  flower  to  love  and  cherish 
in  the  barren  wilderness  by  which  he  was  surrounded. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

D  I  8  C  L  O  8  C  K  E  S  . 

THE  scorching  sun  of  midsummer  had  driven  many  of 
the  citizens  from  their  heated  pavements  and  uncleanly 
streets,  to  cool  grassy  fields  and  sweet-scented  meadows ; 
from  the  din  of  traffic,  and  the  whirl  of  wheels,  to  the  song 
of  birds,  and  the  music  of  waters.  Among  the  travellers 
were  Mrs.  Clinton  and  her  daughters  on  their  way  to 
Niagara. 

Catharine  had  requested  so  earnestly  to  be  allowed  to 
remain  with  her  mother  that  Mrs.  Clinton  consented, 
though  with  some  reluctance,  as  she  knew  it  to  be  one  of 
Catharine's  earnest  desires  to  visit  the  Falls;  but  Mrs. 
Clayton  had  bien  complaining  for  a  week  or  two,  and  her 
daughter  could  not  be  induced  to  leave  her.  It  -was  the 


144  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

latter  part  of  August ;  Mrs.  Clayton  and  Amy  were  from 
home,  and  Catharine,  who  had  been  busily  employed  all 
the  morning,  had  seated  herself  near  one  of  the  windows. 
She  was  engaged  reading,  and  so  wholly  absorbed  by  her 
book  that  she  was  not  aware  any  one  had  entered  the 
room  until  she  heard  her  name  spoken.  With  a  bright 
blush  on  her  cheek,  she  rose  and  extended  her  hand.  "  Mr. 
Lester !  this  is  an  unexpected  visit ;  I  thought  you  would 
not  return  until  Mrs.  Clinton  came  back." 

"  That  was  my  intention  before  I  left  here ;  but  letters 
were  forwarded  to  me,  which  I  received  while  at  Lake 
George.  They  were  from  England,  and  contained  a  re- 
quest that  I  would  return  immediately,  as  my  grandfather 
had  been  suffering  from  an  attack  of  paralysis,  and  his 
recovery  was  doubtful." 

"  And  you  are  soon  going  to  England  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  shall  leave  in  the  packet  of  September  1st." 

Catharine's  head  grew  dizzy,  and  the,  color  left  her 
cheek.  What  was  it  to  her  that  Mr.  Lester  was  going  to 
England  ?  What  was  it  to  her  if  he  were  no  more  to  be 
an  ever-welcome  guest  at  Mrs.  Clinton's  ?  What  to  her, 
if  instead  of  the  teacher,  earning  for  himself  an  honorable 
maintenance,  he  was  hereafter  to  be  the  man  of  leisure, 
the  gentleman  of  fortune  ?  These  thoughts  passed  rapid- 
ly through  her  mind,  and  sent  a  shiver  through  her  frame, 
but  she  rallied  herself  in  an  instant. 

"  I  regret  that  I  am  obliged  to  leave  so  soon,"  resumed 
Lester,  as  he  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  Catharine,  "  and  I 
regret  it  the  more,  because  my  return  here  will  be  indefi- 
nitely postponed." 

"  You  will  return,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  my  life  is  spared,  I  shall ;  but  not  while  mj 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  145 

grandfather  is  living.  It  was  against  his  wish  that  I  first 
left  him,  and  if  I  find  him  alive  on  my  return,  I  will  stay 
with  him  during  the  remainder  of  his  days,  be  they  few  or 
many." 

"  Mrs.  Clinton  will  regret  your  departure." 

"  Not  more  than  I  shall  regret  parting  from  such  a  noble 
woman." 

"  Julia,  and  the  girls,  will  miss  you  sadly." 

"  And  will  no  one  else  miss  me,  Catharine  ?"  and  Lester 
took  her  hand  in  his.  "  Will  none  beside  Mrs.  Clinton 
regret  my  departure  ?  Will  not  you  sometimes  think  of 
the  many  happy  evenings  we  have  passed  together  ?" 

«  Mr..  Lester !" 

"  Catharine,  I  know  you  to  be  a  woman  above  the  shal- 
low artifices  of  your  sex ;  answer  me  with  your  own  truth- 
fulness, will  you  miss  me  ?" 

"  Mr.  Lester  !"  this  time  Catharine's  voice  was  scarcely 
audible,  and  the  hand  that  lay  in  Edward  Lester's  was 
cold  and  trembling. 

"  You  are  silent,  Catharine ;  may  I,  dare  I  hope  you 
will  regret  our  parting  ?" 

«  I  will." 

"  Heaven  bless  you  for  these  words.  I  have  loved  you 
long,  Catharine,  but  would  not  have  told  my  love  thus 
abruptly,  had  I  not  been  summoned  hastily  away.  I  have 
more  to  ask — will  you  let  me  call  your  mother  mine  ? 
Will  you  leave  her,  and  go  with  me  to  my  English  home  V 
Will  you  be  my  wife,  dearest,  my  true,  loving  wife  ?  We 
will  come  back  again — we  will  settle  in  this  country,  never 
to  leave  it  more — will  you  go  with  me,  Catharine  ?" 

"  I  cannot,  Edward ;  ask  anything  but  that?" 

"  Catharine,"  said  Lester  reproachfully,  <l  I  thought 
7 


146  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

but  now  that  you  loved  me,  and  I  thought,  too,  that  the 
woman  who  truly  loves  would  leave  all,  sacrifice  all,  for 
the  man  to  whom  she  has  given  her  heart." 

"  I  will  wait  years  for  your  return,  but  I  cannot  go 
with  you  and  leave  my  mother  alone." 

"  Your  mother  will  not  be  alone,  William  and  Amy  re- 
main with  her." 

"  A^roy  is  but  a  qhild,  and  William,  though  good  and 
kind,  could  never  supply  the  place  of  a  daughter.  Do  not 
ask  it,  Lester ;  my  mother  has  passed  through  many  sor- 
rows, and  I  have  always  been  with  her — and — I  will  be 
candid  with  you — I  will  never  be  separated  from  her 
while  she  is  living." 

"  Catharine,  Catharine,  this  is  mere  child's  play  !  Why 
did  you  not  tell  me  at  once  that  you  did  not  love  me — 
that  you  were  merely  trifling  away  an  idle  hour  ?" 

Grieved  and  astonished  to  see  such  impetuosity  in  one 
of  Lester's  usually  calm  demeanor,  she  replied, 

t:  You  wrong  me,  Edward,  I  have  not  been  trifling  with 
you.  Were  I  alone  in  the  world,  I  would  go  with  you 
wherever  you  wished — any  spot  on  the  habitable  globe  would 
be  to  me  a  paradise  if  you  were  there — I  would  live  for  you 
— toil  for  you — die  for  you !  No,  Edward,  I  have  not  trifled 
with  you."  Ashamed  of  her  earnestness,  Catharine  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands.  It  was  Lester's  turn  to  be  aston- 
ished, gratified,  delighted.  It  was  thus  he  wished  to  be 
loved,  with  a  woman's  whole  soul. 

"I  see  you  are  not  to  be  moved  from  your  resolution, 
nor  will  I  ask  it.  I  own,  too,  that  I  honor  your  motives, 
that  I  appreciate  your  filial  love,  and  that  if  I  had  been 
less  selfish  in  my  passion,  I  would  not  have  made  the  re- 
quest. But  the  thought  of  leaving  you  for  an  indefinite 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  147 

period,  the  thought  that  perhaps  another  might  woo  and 
win  you,  totally  unmanned  me.  Forgive  me,  dearest,  you 
said  you  would  wait ;  bless  you  for  this  !  You  do  not 
doubt  me  ?  you  do  not  think  I  will  ever  forget  you  ?" 

"  Doubt  you,  Edward !  I  would  as  soon  doubt  that  the 
stars  I  look  on  nightly  are  shining  in  the  heavens,  as  doubt 
your  truth.  But  let  us  talk  calmly,  Lester.  You  are 
going  from  here,  you  know  not  when  to  return.  Time 
works  strange  changes — not  that  I  think  you  would  be  in- 
fluenced by  merely  external  circumstances  —  but  your 
friends  may  wish  you  to  do  what  will  be  more  for  your  in- 
terest than  returning  to  this  country  might  be  ;  if  so,  do 
not  hesitate,  do  what  will  be  best  for  you,  most  pleasing 
to  them.  But,  Lester,  write  to  me — let  me  know  all — 
keep  me  not  in  the  tortures  of  suspense — let  me  know  all 
— and  if  change  should  come,  I  will  still  bless  you,  and 
pray  for  your  happiness." 

"  I  will  write  to  you,  and  you  will  answer  me  ?" 

"  With  my  mother's  approval  I  will." 

"  And  then,  when  I  return,  and  you  are  mine,  your 
mother  will  live  with  us,  and  Amy,  and  "William ;  what  a 
happy  family  we  shall  be,  dearest !" 

Catharine's  blushing  cheek  and  tearful  eye  were  more 
eloquent  than  words.  Here  was  happiness  such  as  she  had 
never  dared  to  contemplate.  To  be  loved  by  Lester — to 
remain  with  her  mother — to  continue  her  guardianship 
over  Amy — to  sa)  her  beloved  brother  a  minister  of 
Christ's  gospel.  The  past,  the  dark  past  was  annihilated ! 
The  rainbow  of  promise  rested  on  the  future !  No  won- 
der Catharine  was  silent — no  wonder  the  tide  of  happiness 
rushing  full  upon  her  heart  filled  it  to  overflowing — no 
wonder  that  she  wept !  At  length  Lester  took  leave,  hav- 


148  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

ing  promised  to  call  in  the  morning  for  Catharine,  to  visit 
an  exhibition  of  pictures  which  he  wished  to  see  before  he 
sailed. 

On  Mrs.  Clayton's  return  Catharine  told  her  all  that 
had  passed.  Long  and  earnest  was  the  conversation  of 
mother  and  daughter,  and  with  her  mother's  blessing  rest- 
ing on  her  head,  Catharine  laid  her  on  her  pillow — but  not 
to  sleep.  Blissful  visions,  holy  confiding  thoughts,  day 
dreams,  and  air  castles  occupied  her  mind,  and  the  clock 
in  a  neighboring  steeple  tolled  the  hour  of  two  before  her 
senses  were  steeped  in  the  forgetfulness  of  slumber.  Oh, 
warm  love  of  the  young  heart,  how  beautiful  art  thou  in 
thy  truth,  thy  earnestness,  thy  self-abandoLment.  Oh, 
warm  love  of  the  young  heart,  how  dost  thou  revel  in  the 
ideal,  and  clothe  the  world  with  sunshine,  and  drink  deep 
of  the  poetry  of  life  ! 

Almost  the  first  person  they  met  at  the  exhibition  rooms 
was  Laura  Archer.  She  reddened  with  shame  and  vexa- 
tion when  she  saw  Catharine  accompanied  by  Lester,  and, 
like  one  of  old, 

"  With  jealous  leer  malign 
Eyed  them  askance." 

To  think  he  had  refused  an  invitation  from  her,  and  was 
now  walking  arm  and  arm  with  the  governess !  With  her 
heart  bursting  with  rage  and  mortification,  she  watched 
Lester's  elegant  figure,  and  kindling  eye,  as  he  moved  from 
one  picture  to  another,  and  pointed  out  their  beauties  to 
his  companion.  There  was  no  mistaking  his  look,  he  was 
in  love — in  love  with  Catharine  Clayton !  And  she,  too, 
listened  to  his  words,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  his  so  modest- 
ly, yet  confidingly — that  she — yes — she  must  be  aware  of 
his  passion. 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  149 

Laura  turned  her  gaze  from  Lester  and  looked  upon 
the  boy  who  was  trying  to  play  the  man  by  her  side,  and 
answered  him  almost  contemptuously  as  he  uttered  some 
silly  remarks  about  tone  and  color.  The  boy-man  twirled 
his  hat,  looked  confused,  and  vowed  "  Miss  Archer  was  so 
odd  that  he  couldn't  understand  her." 

Laura  made  no  reply,  for  her  thoughts  were  not  with 
the  speaker.  She  had  moved  close  behind  the  objects  of 
her  scrutiny,  as  they  stood  before  a  picture  of  Ver 
Bryck's.  The  artist  had  selected  a  grand  and  awful  sub- 
ject, and  his  genius  had  depicted  it  with  startling  vivid- 
ness and  solemn  beauty.  Amid  the  terrors  of  the  final 
day,  up  through  the  lurid  light  of  the  burning  heavens, 
rose  a  redeemed  spirit.  With  a  calm  and  holy  faith  beam- 
ing from  the  angelic  brow,  upward  and  onward  went  the 
saint,  unharmed  amid  surrounding  ruin,  for  her  stay  was 
on  the  Rock  of  Ages  ! 

Down  thrc  jh  the  appalling  horrors  of  thick  darkness, 
and  utter  wo,  lower,  and  lower,  sunk  the  lost !  A  look  of 
agony  was  raised  upward.  Had  that  fair  spirit  been 
linked  with  him  through  time  ?  Were  they  to  be  parted 
now  ?  parted  forever,  and  forever !  through  the  ceaseless 
roll  of  ages  ?  on — on  through  a  never-ending  eternity  ? 

"  '  The  one  shall  be  taken  and  the  other  left.'  Pray 
Grod  for  us,  dear  Catharine,  that  such  a  fate  may  not  be 
ours  at  the  last  day,"  said  Lester,  in  a  tone  meant  for 
Catharine's  ear  alone.  But  another  had  drunk  in  every 
word  he  uttered. 

"  Dear  Catharine  !  because  he  was  in  love  with  her,  he 
would  not  come !  Despised  for  Jier  /"  and  the  listener 
turned  away  with  deep  hate  for  the  innocent  girl  rankling 
in  her  heart. 


150  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

Laura  Archer  was  called  a  belle.  Hers  was  a  showy 
figure,  set  off  by  fashionable  dress,  and  fashionable  orna- 
ments. Her  face  was  not  very  pretty,  but  she  had  large 
black  eyes,  over  which  she  let  fall  her  long  eyelashes  with 
an  air  of  the  most  captivating  modesty.  Her  mouth  was 
rather  large,  but  it  was  filled  with  fine  teeth,  which  she 
took  care  to  display  on  every  occasion.  Her  tone  of  voice, 
her  mode  of  speech,  her  whole  manner,  was  a  mixture  of 
affectation  and  coquetry,  and  yet  she  had  troops  of  ad- 
mirers. Who  were  they  ?  In  general,  men  past  the  prime 
of  life,  and  boys  in  the  first  importance  of  dawning  man- 
hood. The  antique  beau,  and  the  middle-aged  widower, 
whose  vanity  had  outlived  their  discretion,  were  proud  of 
being  smiled  on  by  the  gay  Miss  Archer.  And  the  half- 
grown  coxcomb,  the  being  of  all  others  most  unbearable  as 
a  lover,  was  petted,  and  caressed,  until  his  allowance  of 
pocket  money  vanished,  purchasing  presents  for  the  sordid 
and  avaricious  girl,  who  professed  to  be  tlv  most  unselfish 
of  human  beings.  But  antique  beau,  atid  spruce  wid- 
ower, and  coxcomb  boy,  served  to  swell  the  train  of  her 
conquests,  and  were  each  in  turn  smiled  upon,  until  some 
new  caprice  took  possession  of  the  lady's  fancy,  when  they 
were  dismissed  and  forgotten,  as  easily,  and  carelessly,  as 
Mrs.  Archer  had  cast  off  her  old  friends  when  stemming 
the  current  of  fashion.  Laura's  temper  we  have  seen  dis- 
played in  her  altercations  with  her  sister ;  her  heart  we 
have  looked  into  as  she  turned  away  from  Lester  and  Cath- 
arine. 

And  such  are  the  women  men  call  unique,  piquant,  and 
admire  for  their  spirit  and  frankness  of  manner ;  even 
their  over  desire  to  please  is  thought  to  evince  an  amiable 
disposition  ;  while  the  woma'A  who  is  unassuming,  and  re- 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  151 

tiring,  whose  heart  is  like  a  folded  rose-bud,  ready  to  ex- 
pand and  shed  its  sweetness  under  the  genial  influence  of 
a  loved  and  loving  home,  is  looked  upon  as  tame  and  spirit- 
less; well  enough,  mayhap,  for  a  patient,  quiet,  domestic 
drudge,  but  totally  unfit  to  be  the  wife  of  any  one  save 
some  dull,  plodding  simpleton.  What  strange  mistakes 
men  often  make  in  their  estimate  of  female  character ! 

In  a  few  days  after  they  had  visited  the  exhibition,  Les- 
ter sailed  for  England,  and  Catharine  sat  alone,  with  tears 
falling  on  the  small  gold  ring  of  her  betrothal.  She  raised 
it  once  more  to  her  lips,  placed  it  on  her  fingers,  restrained 
her  tears,  and  with  a  calm  thoughtfulness  upon  her  brow, 
and  a  woman's  love  within  her  heart,  she  turned  to  her 
daily  duties  at  home,  from  which  she  hourly  expected  to  be 
called  by  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Clinton. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

PRIDE     AND     RUIN. 

<:  WHAT  do  you  think  I  saw  this  morning  ?"  said  a  lady 
visitor,  who  dropped  in  at  Mrs.  Clinton's.  "What  do  you 
think  I  saw  this  morning  ?  Why,  a  red  flag  hung  out  at 
the  Archers'.  Everything  is  going  off  at  sheriff's  sale.  My 
husband  heard  Mr.  Archer  was  about  to  fail,  but  really  I 
did  not  think  it  would  be  quite  so  bad.  A  sheriff's  sale  !" 

"  I  am  sorry  for  them,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton,  "  it  will  be  a 
great  shock  to  th  'family,  and  more  particularly  to  the  poor 
girl  who  i»  so  ill." 

"  O,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  she  was  buried  the  day  before 
yesterday." 


152  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

"  Buried !  Why  I  did  not  know  she  was  dead."  said 
Mrs.  Clinton  with  emotion. 

"  0,  yes.  she  went  off  quite  easy  after  all.  They  had 
no  thought  she  was  dying,  for  I  was  there  at  a  little  sup- 
per in  the  evening,  and  Mrs.  Archer  and  Laura,  who  had 
retired  quite  fatigued,  were  not  in  the  room  when  she  died. 
Well,  she  is  better  off,  poor  thing,  out  of  the  sorrows  of 
this  troublesome  world." 

"  I  trust  that  she  is ;  the  latter  part  of  her  life  was  spent 
in  preparing  for  the  solemn  realities  of  eternity." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  she  grew  very  Methodistical,  and  had  a 
clergyman  there  to  pray  with  her.  But  isn't  it  strange 
about  Mr.  Archer  failing  ?  though  I  often  told  my  hus- 
band such  extravagance  could  not  last.  Such  balls,  and 
such  parties,  as  the  Archers  gave  !  Such  dresses  !  Why, 
I  have  known  Laura  Archer  to  pay  seven  hundred  dollars 
for  a  camel's  hair  shawl,  and  she  thought  nothing  of  giving 
twenty-five  and  thirty  for  a  bonnet  and  feathers.  As  for 
silks,  laces,  and  embroideries,  there  was  no  end  to  them  ; 
no  wonder  her  father  was  ruined  !" 

Again  Mrs.  Clinton  repeated  that  she  was  sorry  for  them. 

"  Why,  my  dear  Mrs.  Clinton,  how  can  you  be  sorry  for 
such  people  ?  You  know  Mrs.  Archer  was  a  vulgar  woman, 
who  should  have  had  no  pretension  to  anything  of  the 
kind,  and  so  I  always  said  when  I  came  away  from  her 
parties." 

"  But  why  did  you  go  to  her  parties  if  you  thought  so  ? 
it  was  surely  unfriendly  to  partake  of  her  hospitality  and 
then  turn  her  into  ridicule."  The  lad}  -jolored  slightly. 

"  I  never  looked  upon  it  in  that  light ;  she  would  insist 
upon  our  coming,  and  we  could  not  shut  our  eyes  to  the  ex- 
travagance that  was  displayed  around  us."  As  Mns 


CATHARINE     CLAPTON.  153 

ton  made  no  further  remark,  the  lady  soon  took  her  leave, 
to  detail  her  malicious  stories  to  more  willing  ears. 

Mrs.  Hardy  was  a  censorious  woman,  and  as  her  own 
income  was  rather  limited,  she  always  looked  with  envious 
eyes  on  the  rich  dresses  and  splendid  entertainments  of  her 
wealthier  friends,  and  more  particularly  the  Archers.  Be- 
ing somewhat  of  a  toady,  she  generally  contrived  to  be  in- 
vited by  either  Laura  or  her  mother,  so  that  no  one  ever 
passed  an  evening  with  Mrs.  Archer  without  meeting  her 
penumbra,  Mrs.  Hardy. 

Mrs.  Hardy  was  but  one  of  a  large  class,  who  court  and 
flatter  their  acquaintances  (we  cannot  say  friends)  in  the 
time  of  their  prosperity,  but  when  adversity  comes  they 
flee  away,  and  like  birds  of  ill-omen  go  croaking  over  their 
former  companions'  downfall.  You  may  know  them  by 
the  burden  of  their  strain.  "  I  said  so — I  knew  it  would 
come  to  this — I  told  you  such  extravagance  could  not  last, 
and  now  my  words  have  come  true ;  I  wonder  people  can 
make  such  fools  of  themselves  !"  In  this  instance,  Mrs. 
Hardy's  words  had  indeed  been  true.  The  Archers  were 
completely  ruined  !  So  suddenly  had  it  come  even  upon 
Mr.  Archer  himself,  who  had  latterly  devoted  most  of  his 
time  to  his  dying  daughter,  that  he  found  no  time  for  mak- 
ing arrangements  of  any  kind,  and  before  he  had  recovered 
from  the  stupefaction  of  grief  caused  by  the  loss  of  his 
child,  everything  was  in  the  power  of  his  creditors.  His 
wife  and  daughter  were  loud  in  their  reproaches.  "  It  was 
all  owing,"  they  said,  "  to  his  inattention  to  business. 
They  thought  it  would  end  so  when  he  was  spending  half 
his  time  in  Moll's  room,  with  her  and  the  Methodistical 
parson.  What  in  the  world  were  they  to  do  now  ?  "Work  ? 
no,  that  they  would  not,  they  would  starve  first !  A  pretty 

7* 


154  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

thing  it  would  be  to  see  ladies  who  had  moved  in  the  so 
ciety  in  which  they  had,  obliged  to  earn  their  living  like 
common  vulgar  people.  What  would  their  friends  say  ? 
No,  indeed,  they  had  still  some  pride  left  " 

And  so  they  had,  a  contemptible  pride  !  ashamed  to  use 
their  energies  for  obtaining  their  own  support — ashamed 
to  act  independently,  and  avow  honestly  that  they  were 
poor.  Where  was  their  self-respect  ?  Lost  in  conjectur- 
ing "  what  the  world  would  say  ?"  in  wondering  "  what 
Susan  Jones  would  say?"  Where  was  their  self-reliance? 
gone  with  their  wealth,  the  only  thing  on  which  they  had 
ever  relied  for  obtaining  the  friendship  of  the  world  of 
fashion.  And  thus  were  these  woman,  who  had  been  so 
proud  and  arrogant  in  prosperity,  who  were  so  incapable 
of  using  the  bounteous  gifts  of  a  good  Providence  aright, 
thus  were  they,  mean  and  spiritless,  filled  with  false  pride 
and  false  shame  in  adversity. 

After  many  delays,  Mr.  Archer  succeeded  in  obtaining 
a  situation  as  clerk  in  a  counting-room.  His  wife  and 
daughter  were  violently  opposed  to  his  accepting  it. 

"  A  clerk  !"  said  Laura — "  only  think  of  papa  being  a 
clerk !  I  shall  die  with  mortification  !  Indeed,  papa,  you 
were  very  stupid,  that  you  did  not  sooner  look  into  your 
affairs,  and  make  an  assignment  of  your  property,  to  se- 
cure it  from  your  creditors." 

"  Would  that  have  been  honest,  Laura  ?"  asked  her  fath- 
er, mildly. 

"  Honest — fiddlesticks  !"  said  Mrs.  Archer  sharply — 
"  who  cares  for  honesty  now-a-days  ?  What  would  have 
become  of  the  Goldmans,  if  their  father  had  not  played 
his  cards  better  than  you  have  done  ?  You  know  he  took 
the  benefit  of  the  act,  and  when  Thompson,  at  whose  store 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  15L 

tlie  girls  had  purchased  all  their  dry  goods,  asked  him  to 
pay  part  of  the  large  bill  that  was  due,  Mr.  Goldman  vo-ned 
to  heaven  he  could  hardly  support  his  family  !  While,  at 
the  same  time,  they  had  never  left  their  beautiful  house, 
aiid  were  every  day  driving  through  Broadway  in  their  own 
carriage.  Now,  if  you  had  been  as  sharp  as  Mr.  Goldman. 
Laura  and  me  might  have  had  our  house  and  carriage  still, 
in  spite  of  the  creditors." 

"  Once  I  might  have  been  tempted  to  do  so,  but  not  now," 
replied  Mr.  Archer.  "  I  wish,  my  dear,  instead  of  looking 
to  such  men  as  Mr.  Goldman  for  example,  that  you  would 
rather  endeavor  to  emulate  the  conduct  of  our  old  friend, 
Mrs.  Rernsen,  who,  when  her  husband  failed,  not  only  in- 
sisted on  giving  her  own  personal  property  toward  the 
liquidation  of  his  debts,  but,  with  her  daughter,  imme- 
diately sought  employment,  and  thought  none  degrading 
that  would  insure  their  independence.  I  have  always  re- 
gretted that  just  at  that  time  you  blotted  their  names 
from  your  visiting  list." 

"  Lord,  papa,  how  strangely  you  talk  !  Who  was  going 
over  to  an  obscure  street,  on  the  east  side  of  the  town,  to 
visit  them,  I  wonder  ?  I  would  not  put  my  foot  in  such  a 
plebeian  place." 

"  Laura,  you  forget  yourself.  Mrs.  Clinton,  whom  you 
were  so  proud  of  receiving  as  a  guest,  always  visited,  and 
still  continues  to  visit  the  Remsens.  I  fear  your  pride 
must  receive  a  still  greater  humbling.  You  know  that 
through  the  kindness  of  a  friend,  we  obtained  this  furnished 
house,  until  we  could  make  some  permanent  arrangement 
Here  we  cannot  stay,  for  we  cannot  afford  it.  To-day  I 
hired  apartments  suited  to  our  limited  means,  and  to-mor- 
row we  must  remove  to  them." 


156  CATHAKUTE     CLAYTON. 

''Apartments!  "Where  are  they,  Mr.  Archer?"  ex- 
claimed his  wife,  drawing  her  little  fat  figure  to  its  full 
height — "  where  are  they  ?  I  repeat.  It  is  necessary  that 
my  daughter  and  myself  should  know  where  we  are  going 
to.  It  must  be  no  mean  place,  let  me  tell  you.  What 
street  are  they  in  ?" 

"  Division  street — there  is  a  shop  underneath,  but  the 
rooms  are  pleasant;  and,  as  we  will  not  be  able  to  keep  a 
servant,  I  hired  them  mostly  for  their  convenience." 

"  Good  heavens  !  Mr.  Archer,  are  you  mad  ?  Do  you 
think  Laura  and  me  will  go  and  live  in  Division  street — 
up  stairs,  too — and  over  a  shop  ?" 

"  I  declare,  papa,  this  is  insufferable — I  shall  not  stir  a 
step  from  where  I  am  !"  said  Laura,  crying  with  vexation. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  must,  Laura,  as  this  house  is  already 
rented  to  other  tenants,  who  take  possession  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  If  we  remain  here  longer  than  to-morrow 
night,  we  must  either  go  to  our  new  lodging,  or  walk  into 
the  street." 

The  mother  and  daughter  cried,  complained  and 
stormed  by  turns,  but,  finding  there  was  no  alternative, 
they  consented  to  Mr.  Archer  buying  some  furniture,  and 
having  it  placed  by  day  in  the  rooms,  to  which  they  would 
remove  at  night,  for  they  were  determined  that  none  of 
their  old  acquaintances  should  ever  find  out  where  they  had 
gone  to.  But  they  did  not  succeed  in  keeping  themselves 
hidden,  for  Mrs.  Hardy,  who  had  envied  their  prosperity, 
and  gloated  over  their  ruin,  was  determined  on  finding  them 
— and  having  done  so,  she  one  day  walked  into  the  front 
door  without  knocking,  ascended  the  stairs,  and,  with  the 
coolest  effrontery  imaginable,  passed  into  a  room  where 
she  found  Mrs.  Archer  engaged  in  some  very  homely  do 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  157 

mestic  avocations,  and  Laura  seated,  en  deshabille,  reading 
a  new  French  novel,  from  a  circulating  library. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Archer — my  dear  Laura  !"  began  Mrs. 
Hardy,  before  they  had  time  to  recover  from  the  surprise 
and  mortification  caused  by  her  unexpected  entrance — 
"  how  delighted  I  am  to  see  you,  and  how  sorry  to  find 
that  you,  dear  Laura,  with  your  refined  and  elegant  hab- 
its, are  obliged  to  live  in  this  place."  Here  she  glanced 
at  the  scanty  furniture,  and  showed  a  very  perceptible 
curl  of  the  lip.  "  And  you,  Mrs.  Archer,  how  very  do- 
mestic you've  grown  !" 

Mrs.  Archer,  instead  of  repelling  Mrs.  Hardy's  familiar 
intrusiveness,  and  by  her  own  dignity  putting  to  silence 
the  insolence  of  her  visitor,  began  to  apologize  for  having 
been  found  busy  at  all,  and  talked  something  of  the  ser- 
vant being  out  of  the  way. 

"  0,  pray  don't  apologize  to  me — you  know  we  were  so 
intimate — and  you  can't  think  how  shocked  I  was  to  see  a 
red  flag  hung  out  at  your  house;  dear  me,  people  should 
be  economical  in  this  world — but  we  must  all  live  and 
learn,  I  suppose.  Laura,  dear,  I  wonder  if  you  will  be 
invited  to  many  parties  this  winter  ?  For  my  part, 
I  don't  pretend  to  give  very  expensive  ones — nothing 
at  all  like  yours — if  I  did,  Mr.  Hardy  would  soon  be 
ruined." 

There  was  little  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  Archers  to 
prolong  conversation,  and  when  Mrs.  Hardy  had  fully 
gratified  her  curiosity  as  to  the  number  of  apartments 
they  occupied,  and  had  ascertained  beyond  a  doubt  that 
they  kept  no  servant,  she  took  her  leave,  to  spread  the 
news  from  house  to  house,  among  the  former  acquaint- 
ances of  the  Archers.  Among  the  rest  she  did  not  forget 


158  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

Mrs.  Clinton,  and  this  lady,  from  a  purely  kind  feeling, 
sought  out  their  abode,  but  found  no  admission. 

Mrs.  Clayton,  too,  and  Catharine,  forgetting  the  pa^t 
arrogance  of  Laura  Archer,  went  to  see  them — but,  after 
knocking  until  they  were  tired,  were  obliged  to  turn 
away  from  the  house.  The  Archers  could  see  frcm  the 
window  above  who  was  below  on  the  street,  and  they  had 
let  these,  their  only  true  friends,  go  away  without  the 
least  mark  of  courtesy,  or  even  recognition.  Ever  since 
the  untimely  visit  of  Mrs.  Hardy,  the  front  door  had  been 
kept  locked,  and  was  only  opened  on  the  return  of  Mr. 
Archer  in  the  evening. 

A  miserable  home  was  his  to  return  to  after  a  day  of 
toil !  Reproaches  and  recriminations  between  mother  and 
daughter,  an  untidy  room,  and  a  slovenly-prepared  supper  ! 
How  often  did  he  recur  to  the  days  when  he  thought  of 
training  his  wife  !  How  often  did  he  wish  to  be  at  rest 
in  the  church-yard,  sleeping  quietly  beside  his  daughter ! 
Poor  Mr.  Archer ! 

After  struggling  on  for  two  years  longer,  his  wish  was 
at  length  granted,  and  he  was  laid  in  his  grave  a  weary 
and  heart-broken  man. 

Laura  and  her  mother  now  found  it  absolutely  necessary 
to  do  something  for  their  support,  and  after  the  usual 
"  what  will  people  say  ?"  they  decided  on  hiring  a  fur- 
nished house,  which  had  been  offered  them  by  a  friend  of 
Mr.  Archer's,  and  taking  boarders,  alleging  as  an  apolo- 
gy for  so  doing,  "  that  they  would  be  very  lonesome  if 
there  were  no  one  in  the  house  but  themselves." 

No  sooner  was  Laura  in  her  new  abode  than  she  began 
coquetting  as  of  old,  but  without  her  former  success. 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  159 

Then  she  had  the  reputation  of  being  rich,  now  she  was 
known  to  be  poor. 

There  was  a  young  countryman,  whose  father  had  sent 
him  to  the  city  to  remain  during  the  winter,  that  he  might 
qualify  himself  for  opening  a  store  in.  his  native  village  in 
the  spring,  and  he  boarded  with  the  Archers. 

Laura,  having  failed  in  all  her  other  matrimonial  specu- 
lations, laid  siege  to  the  heart  of  the  bashful  stripling. 

There  was  no  resisting  Miss  Laura's  kindness,  Miss 
Laura's  winning  ways.  If  she  went  out  for  a  walk,  or 
wished  to  go  shopping,  she  could  not  think  of  going  alone ; 
no,  she  invariably  called  on  him.  If  she  wanted  anything 
brought  from  down  town  (which  she  did  very  frequently) 
she  begged  the  favor  of  him.  And,  finally,  in  a  fit  of 
desperation,  when  he  talked  of  going  home,  and  "  guessed 
as  how  he  shouldn't  settle  there,  but  would  go  out  West," 
she  vowed  she  could  not  live  without  him. 

What  mattered  it  that  she  was  several  years  older  than 
he  ?  What  mattered  it  that  he  was  half  a  head  shorter 
than  she  ?  "  What  would  the  world  say  if  she  were  an 
old  maid  ?"  Aye,  that  was  it !  and,  in  spite  of  all  dispari- 
ty, Laura  became  Mrs.  Peter  Jinkins. 


CHAPTEE  XIII, 

BLUE     STOCKINGS     AND     BRIDES, 

"  AND  so  Amy  still  retains  her  penchant  for  writing 
poetry.  I  believe  she  is  afraid  of  my  ridicule,  and  that 
is  why  she  has  always  concealed  her  verses  from  me,"  said 


160  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

William  Clayton  to  Catharine,  as  they  stood  one  day  look- 
ing over  some  manuscript. 

"  Yes,  you  always  teased  her  so  much  about  being  a 
poetess,  and  so  often  called  her  bas  b/eu}  that  she  is  rather 
shy  of  you." 

"  Well,  there  is  a  goodly  pile  of  paper  here,  and  some 
of  the  lines  are  thoughtful  and  sad  to  have  been  written 
by  so  young  a  girl." 

"  But  Amy  is  not  like  the  generality  of  young  girls. 
Child  as  she  was  when  our  dear  father  was  taken  from  as, 
his  death  made  a  deep  and  vivid  impression  upon  her 
mind,  and  she  never  reverts  to  the  painful  events  of  that 
night  without  a  shudder.  Her  early  training  in  the  school 
of  sorrow  has  made  her  thoughtful  beyond  her  yearS ;  but 
those  deep  and  solemn  thoughts  are  hidden  within  her 
heart,  only  to  be  breathed  forth  in  verse.  In  daily  life, 
Amy's  warm  and  joyous  nature  makes  her  a  very  sunbeam 
in  our  path." 

"  I  know  it,  Catharine,  and  Heaven  grant  she  may  ever 
be  as  now,  the  light  of  our  home,  the  pride  of  our  hearts. 
Here  are  some  lines  which  purport  to  have  been  written 
after  losing  a  young  friend  to  whom  she  was  tenderly 
attached :" 

Thou  comest  in  strange  beauty, 

Like  a  star-gleam  on  the  sea, 
And  memory's  shadows  round  tliee  fall 

All  soft  and  silently. 

Thou  comest  in  the  freshness 

Of  thy  unsullied  worth, 
Like  angel  ones  who  smile  upon 

The  dwellers  on  this  earth. 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  161 

Thou  comest  in  thy  sweetness, 

Which  all  unearthly  seems, 
Like  lovely  visions  which  but  haunt 

The  beauteous  world  of  dreams. 

Thou  comest  in  thy  brightness, 

Like  golden  hues  of  even, 
Which,  as  we  gaze  in  ecstasy, 

Lose  all  their  light  in  heaven. 

Thou  comest,  and  the  tear-drops 

Are  gathering  in  mine  eye. 
I  thought  not  when  I  saw  thee  last 

That  thou  so  soon  shouldst  die  I 

Thou  comest  in  the  midnight, 

When  every  glittering  star 
Shines  out  a  world  of  glorious  light 

Where  sinless  spirits  are. 

Thou  comest  when  the  day-beam 

Breaks  forth  from  darkness  free, 
Thou'rt  ever  with  me,  sainted  one, 

As  other  ne'er  can  be. 

Thou  comest,  and  I  know  thou  art 

A  worshipper  on  high, 
For  every  thought  of  thee  is  linked 

With  glories  of  the  sky. 

Thou  comest,  and  I  pray  to  be 

Admitted  where  thou  art, 
In  presence  of  th"  Eternal  One, 

Where  dwell  the  pure  in  heart. 

"  Let  us  put  away  these  manuscripts  now,"  said  Cath- 
arine, when  they  had  finished  reading  the  lines,  "  and  when 
we  have  more  leisure  I  will  show  you  some  verses  of 
Amy's  which  have  been  published." 


162  CATHARINE     CLA.YTON. 

"  Published !  and  by  our  Amy  ?  why  she  is  not  seven 
teen !" 

"  A  young  poetess,  I  grant  you,  but  girls  will  feel,  a  id 
think,  and  write,  at  seventeen,"  said  Catharine,  taki  ig 
some  magazines  and  papers  from  a  book  shelf. 

"I  see  by  the  signatures  that  all  these  have  been  s..nt 
anonymously." 

"  Why  you  don't  suppose  that  our  timid,  shrinking  A  .ry 
could  ever  find  courage  enough  to  avow  herself  au  autb  jr- 
ess?  You  know  how  much  ridicule  has  been  thrown,  by 
the  small  wits  of  the  day,  upon  those  whom  they  ure 
pleased  to  term  'blue  stockings,'  and  Amy  is  yet  too 
young,  and  too  timid,  to  treat  such  twattle  with  the  con- 
tempt it  deserves.  It  is  said  that  literary  women  are 
slovenly  and  pedantic,  and  make  miserable  housekeepers. 
Now  I  venture  to  affirm,  that  the  woman  who  is  sloveuly 
as  a  writer  would  be  equally  so  if  she  never  put  pen  to 
paper — that  the  woman  who  is  pedantic,  using  big  words 
to  express  common  ideas,  and  displaying  her  learning  on 
unsuitable  occasions,  does  so,  not  because  she  knows  too 
much,  but  too  little — and  that  the  literary  woman  who  is 
a  bad  housekeeper  would  be  a  still  worse  one  if  she  were 
an  ignoramus.  Because  a  woman  in  her  leisure  momc'.us 
jots  down  what  is  passing  through  her  brain,  it  does  '-iot 
follow  that  she  cannot  (if  need  be)  concoct  a  pudding,  or 
make  a  pie,  or  get  a  comfortable  meal  for  her  husband,  or 
mend  her  children's  clothes,  or  do  any  other  thing  equally 
useful.  When  the  hands  are  employed  in  domestic  duties, 
the  mind  cannot  be  idle,  and  surely  it  is  better  to  lei  it 
roam  '  fancy  free  '  than  to  chain  it  down  to  couating  the 
stitches  in  a  seam,  or  the  bubbles  on  a  pot." 

'  Bravo,  Kate !  henceforth  you  shall  be  the  champion 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  163 

of  the  {  Blues.'  Badinage  aside,  I  confess  it  has  been  too 
much  the  fashion  to  decry  lady  writers,  but  depend  upon 
it,  it  has  only  been  done  by  men  of  narrow  and  illiberal 
mind.  Such  men  are  generally  ignorant  and  conceited, 
and  unwilling  to  allow  any  superiority  to  woman.  The 
man  whose  intellectual  powers  have  been  highly  cultivated, 
whose  mind  and  heart  are  enlarged,  feels  uo  such  petty 
jealousy.  He  has  no  fear  that  woman  will  outrival  him, 
even  in  the  lighter  departments  of  literature,  and  an  ig- 
norant woman,  however  pretty  she  may  be,  can  never 
maintain  a  power  over  his  heart." 

"  Why,  my  dear  brother,"  said  Catharine,  in  a  tone  of 
mock  seriousness,  "  how  strangely  you  talk  !  A  lady,  who 
knew  my  fondness  for  reading,  once  said  to  me,  '  Why  do 
you  read  so  much  ?  Depend  upon  it  you'll  never  get 
married;  the  men  don't  like  women  who  know  too  much.'  " 

"  Well,  Catharine,  that  from  one  of  your  own  sex  should 
have  been  conclusive.  But  this  speaking  of  marriage  re- 
minds me  of  Lester;  when  may  .we  expect  him  ?"  Cath- 
arine blushed.  "Do.  not  blush.  Kate;  had  you  a  letter 
this  week  1  Fy  !  what  a  tell-tale  face  you  have.  I  really 
wish  Lester  were  here,  he  might  help  us  to  solve  this  mys- 
tery about  the  money  sent  to  mother  for  my  education. 
Ah,  there  are  mother  and  Amy,  I'll  ask  them  when  you 
heard  from  him." 

"  O,  Catharine,  dear  Catharine,  we  have  just  come  from 
Mrs.  Clinton's,  and  she  says  the  vessel  is  below ;  and  they 
are  all  overjoyed  for  your  sake,  dear  sister." 

"  What  vessel,  Amy  ?"  said  her  brother,  "  what  vessel 
are  you  speaking  about  ?" 

"  The  packet  that  Mr.  Lester's  coming  in — has  not 
Catharine  told  you  ?  She  had  a  letter  by  the  last  steamer." 


164  CATHARINE     CLAYTOX. 

Catharine  was  startled  by  this  sudden  intelligence,  for 
she  had  not  expected  the  vessel  so  soon,  and  she  sat  down 
faint  from  emotion. 

"  There  is  Lester  now !"  exclaimed  William,  darting  to 
the  door. 

Catharine  could  neither  speak  nor  move,  and  the  next 
moment  Lester  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  My  dear  girl !  my  own  Kate  !  My  dear  Mrs.  Clay- 
ton !  Amy !  William  !  All  here — all  spared !  Thank 
God !— thank  God  !" 

It  was  some  time  before  either  of  the  group  was  suffi- 
ciently composed  to  speak  with  anything  like  coherency. 
Five  years  had  Lester  remained  in  England,  faithful  to 
his  promise  not  to  leave  it  while  his  grandfather  was  liv- 
ing. Often,  when  he  had  written  of  his  ardent  desire  to 
return,  one  word  from  Catharine  would  have  brought  him 
to  her  side,  but  she  encouraged  him  in  his  resolution,  and 
besought  him  not  to  leave  the  old  man  who  doated  on  him. 
In  the  meantime  she  remained  with  Mrs.  Clinton,  and  the 
liberal  salary  allowed  her  by  that  lady  enabled  her  to 
maintain  her  mother  in  a  plain,  genteel  style  of  living, 
without  Mrs.  Clayton  being  obliged  to  use  any  exertion 
but  such  as  her  health  permitted.  William  had  been  near- 
ly three  years  in  the  Theological  Seminary,  and  at  the 
expiration  of  the  fourth  was  to  receive  ordination;  and 
Amy  had  grown  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  girl,  almost 
a  woman,  without  losing  any  of  the  warm,  frank-hearted 
truthfulness  which  had  made  her  so  engaging  when  a  child. 
What  a  long,  long  talk  had  Edward  and  Catharine  to- 
gether, when  the  rest  of  the  family  considerately  withdrew, 
and  left  them  to  themselves.  What  fears  that  they  should 


CATHARINE      CLAYTON.  165 

never  meet — what  hopes  and  prayers  that  they  might — 
had  been  theirs  during  those  five  long  years ! 

"  And  did  you  never  doubt  me,  Catharine,  as  year  after 
year  went  by  without  my  returning  ?" 

"  Never  for  a  moment,  Edward — how  could  I,  dearest, 
after—" 

The  rest  of  Catharine's  answer  was  smothered  on  her 
lips,  and  Edward  Lester,  even  with  his  added  five  years, 
forgot  his  usual  stately  demeanor  as  he  repeated  "  dearest !" 
and  added,  "  my  own  sweet  Kate  !" 

We  will  not  linger  over  our  tale,  though  we  could  re- 
late much  that  would  find  an  echo  in  every  loving  heart — 
much  that  would  bring  back  the  bright  visions  of  their 
youth  to  the  sober  matron  and  the  man  of  middle  age — and 
much  that  would  make  the  old  look  back  over  a  long 
lapse  of  years,  and  give  a  sigh  to  the  past. 

"  Happy  is  the  bride  that  the  sun  shines  on,"  and  never 
was  there  a  brighter  sun  than  that  which  shone  through 
the  church  window,  and  fell  on  the  white  vestments  of 
the  priest,  and  never  was  there  happier  bride  than  Catha- 
rine Clayton  as  she  knelt  and  pronounced  those  vows 
which  made  her  Lester's  for  life. 

Her  wildest  dreams — dreams  that  had  haunted  her 
when  a  girl,  that  had  clung  to  her  through  the  darkest 
hours  of  her  destitution — were  now  realized.  She  had  a 
home,  a  happy  home,  for  her  mother,  her  brother,  and 
Amy ! 

The  following  summer  William  was  ordained,  and,  after 
repeating,  for  the  hundredth  time,  his  wish  to  know  who 
was  his  generous  benefactor,  Catharine  whispered  the 
secret  in  his  ear. 

"Lester?     Why  did  I    not    think  of  him?      Dear, 


166  CATHARINE      CLAYTON. 

generous  Lester  !     And  how  long  have  you  known  this, 
Catharine  ?" 

"  Only  since  your  ordination.  Edward  had  determined 
on  not  telling  it  before,  nor  would  he  have  ever  told  it  had 
we  not  been  married,  for  he  knew  your  aversion  to  being 
under  obligations  to  any  but  your  dearest  friends." 

"  Dear  Lester,  how  can  I  ever  repay  your  kindness  ?" 
said  William,  turning  to  his  brother-in-law,  who  was  enter- 
ing the  room. 

"  By  standing  godfather  to  my  little  Willie,"  answered 
Edward,  pointing  to  a  chubby  urchin  who  was  sleeping 
soundly  in  his  cradle,  by  which  Amy  was  seated. 

"  Ha  !  my  young  poetess — caught  at  last !"  aad  Lester 
playfully  drew  forth  a  slip  of  paper,  the  end  of  which  was 
peeping  out  of  Amy's  pocket.  "  Lines  to  a  Sleeping  In- 
fant !"  "  Here,  William,  read  them.  Nay,  Amy,  if  you 
are  not  afraid  of  Graham,  or  the  Knickerbocker,  why 
should  you  be  afraid  of  us  ?  Head,  William." 

But  before  William  could  commence,  Julia  and  Emily 
Clinton  entered — and  Amy  slipping  slily  behind  her 
brother,  seized  the  paper  and  put  it  again  in  her  pocket. 
William  and  Emily  chanced  somehow  to  be  left  by  them- 
selves, while  the  other  members  of  the  party,  with  Mrs. 
Clayton,  who  had  joined  them,  were  grouped  around  the 
baby,  who  began  to  give  audible  signs  of  wakefulness. 

"  You  remember  what  you  promised,  Emily,  as  soon  as 
I  obtained  a  church  and  a  parsonage  !" 

Emily  blushed,  and  glanced  timidly  around  to  see  if 
they  were  observed,  but  all  seemed  lost  in  their  admira- 
tion of  the  infant,  and  totally  forgetful  of  the  presence  of 
William  and  herself.  What  was  the  promise  to  which  he 
had  alluded  ?  Simply  this — that  Emily  Clinton  had  prom- 


CATHARINE     CLAYTON.  167 

ised  to  be  his  wife  as  soon  as  he  had  obtained  the  charge 
of  a  congregation. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  said  Mrs.  Hardy,  to  one  of  her 
friends — "  Well,  I  declare  !  Mrs.  Clinton  is  the  strangest 
woman  in  the  world  !  Why,  I  hear  that  her  daughter 
Eraily  is  engaged  to  William  Clayton.  Only  to  think 
of  her  allowing  one  of  her  girls  to  marry  the  brother  of 
a  governess !  And  he  is  poor,  too,  with  nothing  but  his 
profession  to  depend  on — nothing  but  the  salary  he  will 
receive  as  a  clergyman  !  What  will  the  world  say  ?" 

But  how  little  was  Mrs.  Clinton,  or  her  friends  the 
Claytons,  influenced  by  the  opinions  of  those  whom  Mrs. 
Hardy  styled  "  the  world  !" 

Through  a  life  of  unbounded  prosperity,  Mrs.  Clinton 
had  ever  been  mild,  gentle,  and  unassuming ;  treating  the 
lowliest  of  her  fellow-creatures  as  beings  who  had  been 
made  by  the  same  God,  who  had  been  redeemed  by  the 
same  Saviour,  and  who  should  be  judged  by  the  same 
Judge  as  she  herself.  Never,  when  visiting  the  abodes 
of  the  destitute,  or  when  welcoming  with  frank  cordiality 
the  poor  in  purse  but  gifted  in  intellect  to  her  elegant 
home,  did  she  fear  compromising  her  own  dignity  by  so 
doing,  nor  pause  to  ask, "  what  will  the  world  say  ?" 

Through  bitter  trials,  through  years  of  adversity,  the 
Claytons  had  always  retained  their  self-respect.  They 
had  never  cringed  to  the  wealthy,  nor  done  aught  that 
partook  of  meanness.  They  had  not  spent  their  time  in 
useless  and  sinful  repinings,  but  with  humble  and  trusting, 
though  often  saddened  hearts,  had  relied  on  that  Almighty 
Providence  whose  care  is  over  all  his  creatures.  And 
why  should  they,  firm  in  their  integrity,  pause  to  ask, 
"  what  will  the  world  say  ?" 


168  CATHARINE     CLAYTON. 

In  less  than  six  months  after  William  Clayton's  ordi- 
nation, another  bridal  party  entered  the  church  ;  the  sun 
shone  gloriously  on  another  bride,  and  a  dearer  link  was 
added  to  the  chain  which  bound  the  Clintons  to  the  Gover- 
ness. 


1 


Cal&at; 


OR, 


THE     UNFINISHED     PICTURE. 


CHAPTBE  I. 

O  God  !  to  clasp  those  fingers  clo8e, 

And  yet  to  feel  so  lonely  ! 
To  see  a  light  on  dearest  brows, 

Which  is  the  daylight  only  ! 

ELIZABETH  B.  BARRETT. 

I  WAS  sitting  one  morning  in  the  library  of  a  friend,  look- 
ing over  a  valuable  collection  of  works  of  art,  made 
during  a  five  years  residence  abroad,  and  listening  to  his 
animated  description  of  scenes  and  places  now  become  fa- 
miliar to  every  one  who  reads  at  all,  through  the  medium 
of  "  Jottings,"  "  Impressions,"  and  "  Travels,"  with  which 
the  press  abounds. 

Among  the  paintings  were  small  copies  in  oil  from  Cor- 
regio,  Guercino,  Guido,  and  Rafaelle.  There  was  a  head 
of  the  latter,  copied  from  a  portrait  painted  by  himself, 
and  preserved  in  the  Pitti  Palace.  With  the  slightest 
shade  of  hectic  on  the  cheek,  and  the  large  unfathomable 
eyes  looking  into  the  great  Beyond,  it  was  truly  angelic  in 

8 


170  PAUL     TALBOT. 

its  loveliness.  No  wonder  the  man  for  whom  nature  had 
done  so  much,  and  who  delighted  in  portraying  the  loftiest 
ideal  beauty,  no  wonder  he  was  called  "  divine  !" 

On  one  side  of  the  room,  in  which  we  were  conversing, 
stood  a  picture  apart  from  all  the  others,  which  soon  en- 
grossed my  entire  attention.  A  young  man  was  represented 
reclining  on  a  couch,  and  wrapped  in  a  robe  falling  in  loose 
folds  about  his  person.  His  countenance  bore  the  traces 
of  suffering,  but  his  dark  eyes  were  filled  with  the  light  of 
love,  and  hope,  as  they  looked  up  into  the  face  of  a  young 
female  bending  mournfully  at  his  side.  On  the  head  of 
this  female  the  artist  had  lavished  all  the  love  of  genius. 
With  the  sunny  hair  parted  on  the  fair  forehead,  and  the 
rich  braids  simply  confined  by  a  silver  arrow — the  dark 
eyes  from  which  the  tears  seemed  about  to  fall — the  half- 
parted  lips  quivering  as  if  from  intense  emotion — oh,  it 
was  trancendently  lovely !  The  rest  of  the  figure  was  in 
outline,  but  as  vividly  portrayed  as  some  of  .those  wonder- 
ful illustrations  by  Flaxman,  in  which  a  single  line  reveals 
a  story. 

"  How  is  this,"  said  I,  after  gazing  long  and  earnestly 
upon  it.  "  how  is  this  ? — why  is  the  picture  unfinished.  And 
who  was  the  painter  ?" 

<;  The  tale,"  replied  my  friend,  "  is  a  sad  one ;  and  if 
you  are  tired  of  looking  at  pictures  and  medals,  I  will  re- 
late it  to  you." 

"  Not  tired,  yet  I  should  like  to  hear  the  story  to  which 
this  picture  imparts  an  unusual  interest." 

"  You  remember  Paul  Talbot,  who  left  here  some  years 
ago  to  pursue  the  study  of  his  art  abroad." 

"  I  do.  but  that  young  man — sick — almost  dying — I 
thought  the  face  a  familiar  one ;  but  can  that  be  Paul  ?" 


THE      UNFINISHED     PICTURE.  171 

"  Alas  !  yes — lie  is  dead  !"  and  my  friend  dashed  away 
a  tear  as  he  spoke. 

"  Dead !"  repeated  I.  <:  Paul  Talbot  dead  !  when  did  he 
die  ?" 

"  Not  long  before  iny  return.  Poor  fellow !  he  endured 
much,  and  his  career  was  an  exemplification  of  what  a  man 
of  untiring  energy  can  accomplish  under  the  most  adverse 
circumstances. 

"  Soon  after  the  birth  of  Paul,  his  father  died,  leaving 
little,  save  a  mother's  love  and  a  stainless  reputation  to 
his  infant  son. 

"  Mr.  Talbot  was  a  man  of  refined  taste,  and  had  col- 
lected round  him  objects  of  which  an  amateur  might  be 
justly  proud — and  thus  from  childhood  had  been  fostered 
Paul's  love  for  the  beautiful. 

"  Well  educated  and  accomplished,  Mrs.  Talbot  under- 
took the  tuition  of  her  child,  and  by  giving  lessons  in  draw- 
ing, painting  miniatures  on  ivory,  and  small  portraits  in  oil, 
kept  herself  and  her  boy  above  the  pressure  of  want.  Care- 
fully she  instilled  into  his  tender  mind  those  lofty  princi- 
ples of  rectitude,  of  uncomprising  integrity,  and  that  child- 
like trust  in  the  goodness  of  an  overruling  Providence, 
which  sustained  him  through  all  the  trials  of  after  years. 

"  How  holy,  how  powerful  is  the  influence  of  a  mother  ! 
The  father  may  do  much,  but  the  mother  can  do  more  to- 
ward the  formation  of  the  mind,  and  the  habits  of  early 
childhood.  Exercising  a  power,  silent,  yet  refreshing  as 
the  dews  of  heaven,  her  least  word,  her  lightest  look,  sinks 
deep  into  the  hearts  of  her  children,  and  moulds  them  to 
her  will.  How  many  men  have  owed  all  that  has  made 
them  great  to  the  early  teachings  of  a  mother's  love  !  The 
father,  nec'essarily  occupied  with  business  or  professional 


172  PACL      TALBOT. 

duties,  cannot  give  the  needful  attention  to  the  minor 
shades  in  the  character  and  disposition  of  his  little  ones, 
but  the  mother  can  encourage  and  draw  out  the  latent  en- 
ergies of  the  timid,  can  check  the  bold,  and  exert  an  influ- 
ence which  may  be  felt  not  only  through  time,  but  through 
eternity. 

"  It  was  beautiful  to  sec  Paul  Talbot  standing  by  his 
mother's  side,  with  his  childish  gaze  fixed  upon  her  face, 
while  receiving  instruction  from  her  lips,  and  to  hear  him 
as  he  grew  in.  years,  wishing  he  was  a  man,  that  he  might 
be  enabled  to  supply  her  every  want. 

" '  You  know,'  he  would  exclaim,  while  his  fine  eyes  were 
flashing  with  enthusiasm,  '  that  I  will  be  an  artist ;  and, 
oh,  mother,  if  I  could,  like  Washington  Allston,  be  a 
painter-poet ;  could  I  but  paint  such  a  head  as  that  we 
saw  in  the  Academy,  and  write  such  a  book  as  Monaldi, 
then,  mother,  I  would  gain  fame ;  orders  would  crowd 
upon  me — and  then — then  we  would  go  to  Italy  !' 

"  Go  to  Italy !  of  this  he  thought  by  day,  and  dreamed 
by  night ;  and  to  accomplish  this  was  the  crowning  ambi- 
tion of  the  boy's  life. 

"  He  was  willing  to  toil,  to  endure  privation  and  fatigue, 
could  he  but  visit  that  land  where  heavenly  beauty  is  de- 
picted on  the  canvas,  where  the  marble  wants  but  the 
clasp  of  him  of  old  to  warm  it  into  life,  and  where  the 
soft  blue  of  the  sky,  and  the  delicious  atmosphere  brood- 
ing over  the  glories  of  centuries  gone  by,  make  it  the 
Mecca  of  the  artist's  heart. 

"  But  amid  all  these  dreams  of  the  future,  all  these 
ambitious  aspirings  of  the  gifted  youth,  death  cast  his 
dark  shadow  over  that  peaceful  dwelling,  and  the  mother, 


THE      UNFINISHED     PICTURE.  173 

the  guardian  angel  of  the  fatherless  boy,  was  borne  away 
to  be  a  dweller  in  the  silent  land. 

"  With  what  passionate  earnestness  did  he  call  upon  her 
name.  How  did  he  long  to  lie  down  by  her  side.  His 
mother !  his  mother !  she  had  taught  his  lisping  accents 
their  first  prayer ;  she  had  watched  over  his  little  bed,  and 
moistened  his  parched  lips  when  he  was  ill  with  fever — so 
ill.  that  his  mother's  watchful  tenderness  was  all,  under 
God,  that  saved  him  from  the  grave.  As  he  grew  older, 
she  had  spoken  to  him,  not  like  the  boy  he  was  in  years, 
but  like  the  man  to  whom  she  could  impart  her  thoughts, 
and  with  whose  mind  of  almost  premature  development, 
she  might  hold  converse,  and  feel  herself  understood. 
And  now,  in  his  fifteenth  year,  when  he  was  thinking  of 
all  that  he  could,  nay,  of  all  that  he  ivoidd  do  for  her,  his 
mother  had  died  !  Who  can  wonder  that  the  boy  pined, 
and  sat  upon  her  grave,  and  longed  for  her  companion- 
ship, and  wept  as  if  his  heart  must  break. 


CHAPTEE  H. 

Then  all  the  charm 

Is  broken— all  that  phantom-world  so  fair 
Vanished,  and  a  thousand  circlets  spread, 
And  each  misshapes  the  other — COLERIDGE. 

"  ABSTRACTED  in  his  habits,  quiet  and  sensitive,  from 
his  reveries  in  dream-land,  the  orphan  woke  to  find  him- 
self the  inmate  of  a  new  home. 

"  Mrs.  Winter,  the  only  sister  of  the  late  Mr.  Talbot, 


174  PAUL     TALBOT. 

was  wholly  unlike  her  brother.  With  little  taste  for  the 
elegancies  of  life,  except  so  far  as  she  thought  their  pos- 
session would  give  her  importance  in  the  eyes  of  others, 
with  no  sympathy  for  any  ambition  save  that  of  acquir- 
ing money,  she  looked  with  no  very  favorable  eye  on  her 
brother's  orphan.  Dazzled  by  the  prospect  of  a  carriage, 
a  town  and  country-house  in  perspective,  she  had  married 
a  man  of  sixty,  when  she  was  barely  sixteen,  and  could 
never  forgive  her  brother  for  not  falling  in  with  her 
scheme  of  catohing  the  rich  heiress,  who,  she  avowed, 
waited  but  the  asking  to  change  the  name  of  Miss  Patty 
Pringle,  for  the  more  lofty-sounding  title  of  Mrs.  Percy 
Talbot.  But  Percy  Talbot  preferred  the  portionless 
Isabel  Morton,  and  the  monotony  of  a  counting-room,  to 
the  bank-stock,  real  estate,  and  soulless  face  of  Miss  Patty 
Pringle.  Hence  there  was  but  little  intercourse  between 
the  brother  and  sister,  and  when  the  younger  Talbot 
sought  the  shelter  of  his  aunt's  roof  she  animadverted 
with  great  bitterness  on  the  folly  of  people  gratifying  a 
taste  for  luxuries  beyond  their  means,  and  encouraging 
boys  without  a  shilling  to  spend  their  time  in  reading 
books  and  daubing  canvas. 

'•  Nor  could  Mrs.  Winter  refrain  from  talking  of  stu- 
pidity, when  Paul  sat  quietly  at  his  drawing,  while  her 
own  sons  were  making  the  house  ring  with  their  boisterous 
mirth.  The  boys,  catching  the  spirit  of  their  mother, 
ridiculed  Paul's  sketches,  and  with  the  petty  tyranny  of 
little  minds,  subjected  him  to  every  annoyance,  and 
taunted  him  with  his  dependent  state.  The  proud,  sensi- 
tive boy,  writhed  under  such  treatment,  and  determined 
on  leaving  the  relatives  who  had  neither  tastes  nor  sym- 
pathies in  common  with  his  own. 


THE     UNFINISHED     PICTURE.  175 

"  When  at  the  age  of  twelve  years  he  hung  over  the 
landscape  he  was  trying  to  imitate,  and  from  which  no 
boyish  sports  could  lure  him ;  when  he  saw  the  sketch 
grow  beneath  his  touch,  and  look  more  and  more  like  the 
original,  until,  in  the  exultation  of  his  young  heart,  he  ex- 
claimed, '  I  knew  that  I  could  do  it,  if  I  did  but  try,'  he  un- 
consciously displayed  that  perseverance  of  character  with- 
out which  no  one  can  hope  to  attain  eminence.  And  now 
that  same  energy  was  employed  in  seeking  means  to  gain  a 
livelihood  without  being  subjected  to  the  bitterness  of  insult. 

"  He  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  situation,  and  in  com- 
pensation for  his  services,  received  his  board  and  a  small 
salary.  True,  he  had  but  little,  but  that  little  was  his 
own ;  he  had  earned  it,  and  a  proud  feeling  of  indepen- 
dence was  his,  when  purchasing  the  scanty  stock  of  draw- 
ing materials  with  money  obtained  by  his  own  exertions. 
And  so  passed  a  few  years,  during  which  he  diligently  de- 
voted himself  to  the  business  of  his  employer  through 
the  day,  and  to  reading  and  drawing  at  night. 

"  The  long-cherished  hope  of  visiting  Italy  had  never 
been  abandoned,  although  the  many  obstacles  in  the  way 
seemed  almost  insurmountable.  But  now  a  bright  thought 
occurred  to  him ;  '  I  will  give  up  my  situation ;  I  will 
hire  a  room  with  the  money  already  saved,  and  devote  my- 
self entirely  to  the  pursuit  of  art.  I  will  paint  a  picture 
— it  will  be  placed  in  the  exhibition — and  then — '  Talbot 
paused,  and  his  cheek  glowed,  and  his  heart-pulse  quick- 
ened as  he  looked  into  the  future. 

"  The  resolution  once  taken,  he  was  not  long  in  carry- 
ing it  into  effect ;  and  day  after  day  saw  him  at  his  easel, 
laboring  with  patient  assiduity,  and  flattering  himself 
that  his  picture  would  not  pass  unnoticed. 


176  PAUL     TALBOT. 

"  When  the  day  of  exhibition  arrived,  Talbot  walked 
nervously  up  and  down  the  gallery  where  the  pictures 
were  hanging,  every  now  and  then  glancing  at  his  own, 
with  the  small  ticket  appended  announcing  it  for  sale,  and 
pausing  to  observe  if  it  attracted  attention.  But  it  had 
been  placed  in  a  bad  light,  directly  beneath  two  brightly- 
tinted  landscapes,  and  so  low  down  that  you  were  obliged 
to  put  one  knee  on  the  floor  before  it  could  be  examined. 
Poor  Paul !  no  one  gave  more  than  a  passing  glance  to 
what  had  cost  you  weeks  of  patient  labor,  and  the  papers 
passed  it  by  with  merely  announcing  its  name  and  num- 
ber on  the  catalogue. 

"  What  a  rude  dashing  down  of  all  his  hopes  was 
here !  What  a  fading  of  the  air-built  castles  he  had 
taken  such  a  delight  in  building?  The  land  of  promise 
had  receded  from  his  view,  and  the  shores  of  Italy  were 
as  a  far-off  vision  seen  in  the  dimness  of  deepening  twi- 
light. Oh,  what  a  sinking  of  the  heart  follows  such  dis- 
appointments !  A  goal  is  to  be  won — the  aspirant  rushes 
eagerly  to  the  race — hope  lures  him  on — he  grows  weary, 
oh,  how  weary — courage — the  thrilling  sound  of  fame's 
trumpet-peal  is  ringing  on  those  heights  afar — courage — 
one  more  struggle  and  the  prize  will  be  his  own  !  One 
more  struggle — and  hope  fades  from  his  sight — and  the 
last  faint  echo  of  fame's  music  dies  upon  his  ear — and  a 
dull  lethargy  seizes  on  his  mind — and  the  pulses  of  his 
heart  grow  still  and  cold  as  the  waveless,  tideless  surface 
of  a  deep,  dark  lake !  Happy  he  who  can  shake  off  the 
despondency  attendant  on  times  like  these,  and,  like  the 
bird  momentarily  driven  back  by  the  storm,  can  plume 
his  wings  and  dare  a  nobler  flight. 


- 

THE      UNFINISHED     PICTURE.  177 


CHAPTER  in. 

Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.  It  comes  not  back  again.  Wisely  im 
prove  the  Present.  It  is  thine.  Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  Future,  without 
fear,  and  with  a  manly  heart. — LONGFELLOW. 

"  THE  spirits  of  youth  arc  elastic,  and  after  great  pres- 
sure will  naturally  rebound.  '  Hope  on,  hope  ever,'  is  a 
maxim  seldom  forgotten  until  age  has  chilled  the  blood 
and  palsied  the  powers  of  life.  After  a  few  days  spent  in 
brooding  over  the  present,  Paul  again  looked  forward  to 
the  future,  and  determined  to  seek  some  other  avenue  by 
which  he  might  gather  up  a  little,  just  a  little,  of  the  treas- 
ure which  others  possessed  in  such  abundance.  His  fond- 
ness for  literature  suggested  the  idea  that  his  pen  might 
be  employed  with  more  profit  than  his  pencil,  and  the 
periodicals  of  the  day  appeared  to  offer  a  wide  field  for 
exertion.  But  emolument  from  such  sources  was  precari- 
ous at  best.  All  who  held  an  established  reputation  in 
the  world  of  letters  were  contributors  to  the  various  popu- 
lar publications,  and  Paul  Talbot  wanted  the  "  magic  of 
a  name  "  to  win  golden  opinions  from  the  press.  Some- 
times he  met  with  those  who  were  more  just  and  generous 
than  others,  and,  thus  encouraged,  he  toiled  on,  hoping, 
even  against  hope,  that  his  desires  would  yet  be  accom- 
plished. 

"  With  many  misgivings,  and  a  fear  that  he  had  mis- 
taken his  vocation,  he  had  taken  his  ill-fated  picture  to  a 
place  where  engravings  were  kept  for  sale,  and  left  it  with 
the  shopkeeper,  promising  to  pay  him  one  half  the  money 
8* 


178  PAUL     TALBOT. 

for  which  it  might  be  sold.  How  discouraging  to  see  it 
week  after  week  in  the  window,  until  it  began  to  look  like 
a  soiled  fixture  of  the  establishment.  No  one  would  ever 
buy  it,  that  was  certain,  and  if  they  would  not  purchase 
this  his  best  work,  how  could  he  ever  hope  to  dispose  of 
others  of  less  merit,  which  were  standing  round  the  walls 
of  his  little  room  ?  Alas,  no  !  but  when  once  in  Italy — 
then  he  would  paint  pictures  such  as  he  dreamed  of  in 
imagination.  For  the  present,  with  weary  frame  and 
throbbing  brow,  he  must  labor  on. 
"  There  are  few  but  know 

'  How  cruelly  it  tries  a  broken  heart 
To  see  a  mirth  in  anything  it  loves.' 

And  who  that  has  ever  walked  forth  on  a  particularly 
bright  morning,  when  he  was  nursing  a  deep  sorrow,  or 
was  weighed  down  by  the  pressure  of  misfortune,  but  felt 
annoyed  by  the  light,  and  noise,  and  cheerfulness  around 
him  ?  Those  vast  tides  of  human  life  what  are  they  to 
him  ?  He  is  but  a  drop  in  a  wave  of  the  mighty  ocean — 
but  a  pebble  thrown  upon  the  sand — a  broken  link  in  the 
great  chain  of  the  Universe.  Thus  felt  Paul,  as  on  one 
of  the  loveliest  days  of  laughing  June,  he  wended  his 
way  to  the  office  where  he  had  left  a  manuscript  to  be  ex- 
amined by  the  publisher. 

"  '  How  can  those  people  look  so  smilingly,'  thought  he, 
while  glancing  at  the  well-dressed  groups  on  the  side-walk. 
'  And  those  children,  how  noisy  they  are — and  see  that 
carriage  with  its  liveried  attendants — pshaw  !'  Now  Paul 
was  not  envious,  and  he  was  particularly  fond  of  children, 
but  the  feeling  of  loneliness  in  the  crowd  was  oppressive, 


THE     UNFINISHED     PICTURE.  179 

and  with  another  half  audible  pshaw  !  he  turned  into  a 
quieter  street. 

"  The  smiling  face  of  the  great  man  who  employed  so 
many  subordinates  in  his  large  establishment,  somewhat 
reassured  the  desponding  youth,  and  after  a  little  pre- 
liminary talk  about  encouraging  native  talent,  a  sum  was 
offered,  which,  though  small  in  itself,  was  just  then  a  god- 
send to  the  needy  Paul,  who  with  many  thanks  bowed 
himself  out  of  the  publisher's  presence.  One  ray  of 
light  had  dawned  on  his  darkened  path,  one  beam  of  hope 
had  shed  its  warmth  upon  his  heart,  and  how  differently 
now  looked  the  scene  through  which  he  had  lately  passed  ! 
With  buoyant  step  he  went  on.  He,  too,  could  smile, — 
the  darling  little  ones,  how  delighted  he  was  to  see  them 
looking  so  happy — and  the  poor  blind  man  at  the  corner 
must  not  be  forgotten  !  Like  the  child  who  plays  with 
the  kaleidoscope,  and  every  moment  sees  some  new  beauty, 
so  Paul  toyed  with  the  many  colored  hues  in  the  rainbow 
of  Hope,  grouping  them  together  in  the  most  beautiful 
and  dazzling  forms. 

"  It  was  destined  to  be  a  red-letter  day  in  his  book  of 
life.  As  he  passed  the  print-shop  he  saw  that  his  picture 
was  gone  from  the  window.  It  had  been  sold,  and  a  com- 
panion-piece ordered  by  the  purchaser.  '  Oh  that  my 
mother  were  living  !'  sighed  Paul — '  oh  that  my  mother 
were  living,  we  might  yet  go  to  Italy  !' 

"  Again  the  painter  laid  aside  his  pen  and  resumed  his 
palette.  The  one  order  was  executed,  the  money  transfer- 
red to  his  slender  purse,  and  even  now  he  began  to  think 
how  much  might  be  put  aside  for  his  darling  project. 

" '  Could  I  but  obtain  enough  to  pay  for  my  passage — 
once  there,  in  that  delicious  climate,  I  could  live  on  so 


180  PAUL      TALBOT. 

little.  Oh  that  some  one  would  buy  this,'  he  continued, 
taking  up  a  small  picture  on  which  he  had  bestowed  un- 
usual care,  '  it  is  worth  more  than  either  of  the  others.  I 
shall  leave  it  with  the  kind  Mr.  Barry ;  how  generous  he 
was  in  refusing  the  commission  I  promised  him  for  the 
last  one  he  sold.' 

"  Mr.  Barry,  at  whose  print-shop  Paul  had  left  his  first 
picture,  had  kindly  drawn  from  him  the  story  of  his  life, 
and  felt  deeply  interested  in  the  young  artist's  changing 
fortunes,  but,  like  many  other  generous-hearted  men,  he 
was  always  forming  schemes  for  the  benefit  of  others, 
which  his  means  would  not  permit  him  to  accomplish. 

"  The  kind  man  had  just  reared  a  goodly  superstructure 
of  greatness,  upon  a  rather  sandy  foundation,  for  his  young 
protege,  when  Paul  entered  with  the  new  work  fresh  from 
his  easel. 

"  '  Why,  Talbot,'  said  he,  cordially  grasping  the  paint- 
er's hand,  '  this  is  capital !  and  I  consider  myself  a  toler- 
ably good  judge.  When  younger,  I  was  in  the  employ  of 
a  picture-dealer,  who  pursued  the  profitable  business  of 
making  old  pictures  look  like  new,  and  the  still  more  profit- 
able one  of  making  new  pictures  look  like  old.  You  stare, 
it  is  a  fact,  I  assure  you.  To  a  Madonna,  that  had  been 
bought  for  a  trifling  sum,  I  had  the  honor  of  imparting  a 
time-worn  tinge,  which  so  took  the  fancy  of  an  amateur, 
that  he  paid  five  hundred  dollars  for  it  at  auction.  But 
I  never  could  endure  cheating,  so  I  left  the  picture  manu- 
factory, and  commenced  the  sale  of  prints  on  my  own  ac- 
count.' 

" '  Do  you  think  there  is  any  chance  of  selling  this 
landscape  ?'  inquired  Paul.  '  I  will  take  fifteen  dollars 
for  it.' 


THE      UNFINISHED     PICTURE.  181 

"  '  Why,  Talbot.  you  are  foolish,  it  is  worth  at  least  fifty.' 

" '  Ah.  no  one  would  give  me  so  large  a  sum  for  a  pic- 
ture ;  fifty  dollars  !  that  would  almost  take  me  to  Italy.' 

"  '  Well,  well,  my  dear  fellow,  it  is  said  Providence  helps 
those  who  help  themselves,  and  you  are  sure  to  be  helped 
in  some  way  or  other.  I  was  thinking  about  you  this 
morning,  and  wrote  a  note  of  introduction  to  Mr.  C.,  who 
is  a  great  patron  of  the  Fine  Arts.  I  have  told  him  of 
your  desire  to  go  abroad,  and  how  you  are  situated — ' 

" '  Nay,  nay,  my  kind  friend,'  interrupted  Paul,  '  this 
looks  too  much  like  begging  a  favor ;  remember  I  cannot 
sacrifice  my  independence,  even  to  secure  the  accomplish- 
ment of  my  most  ardent  wishes.' 

"  '  You  are  wrong,  Talbot.  you  do  not  solicit  him  for 
aid ;  he  has  a  taste  for  art,  and  if  he  gives  you  money,  you 
return  an  equivalent  in  your  picture,  so  that  the  obligation 
is  mutual.' 

"  Paul  was  persuaded,  and,  bearing  his  friend's  letter, 
bent  his  way  to  a  fine-looking  house,  a  long  way  from  his 
own  abode.  Upon  ringing  the  bell,  he  was  informed  by 
the  servant  that  the  family  were  at  dinner.  Leaving  the 
letter  with  the  waiter,  he  desired  him  to  hand  it  to  Mr. 
C.,  and  say  that  Mr.  Talbot  would  call  to-morrow  evening. 
The  next  evening  Mr.  C.  was  engaged,  and  on  the  next, 
when  Paul  was  ushered  into  the  drawing-room,  and  his 
name  announced,  he  received  a  stately  and  patronizing  bow 
from  a  short,  stout  gentleman,  who  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  fire,  conversing  with  three  or  four  more  who  were  seated 
near  him. 

" '  Take  a  seat,  sir,'  and  the  short  man  waived  his  hand 
toward  the  intruder,  and  resumed  the  conversation  thus 
momentarily  interrupted. 


182  PAUL     TALBOT. 

"  Paul  grew  nervous,  and  taking  advantage  of  a  pause 
he  rose,  and  bowing  slightly,  advanced  toward  Mr.  C.  for 
the  purpose  of  speaking.  The  latter  began  first — '  I  have 
looked  over  Mr.  Barry's  letter,  young  man,  and  hardly 
think  it  will  be  in  my  power  to  assist  you.' 

"  '  I  came  not  seeking  assistance,  sir,'  replied  Paul ;  '  my 
friend  Mr.  Barry  thought  you  might  perhaps  wish  to  add 
another  picture  to  your  collection,  and,  as  I  purpose  going 
abroad,  assured  me  that  you  would  cheerfully  give  a  few 
lines  of  introduction  to  your  young  countrymen.' 

"  Well,  well,  we  will  see,  we  will  see,  but  all  you  young 
men  have  taken  it  into  your  heads  that  you  must  travel, 
and  this  makes  so  many  applicants.' 

" '  Applicants  !'  the  word  stung  Paul  to  the  quick,  and 
again  bowing  to  Mr.  C.,  he  left  the  apartment.  Once  in 
the  free  air  of  heaven,  he  gave  vent  to  his  suppressed  feel- 
ings, and  vowed  that  should  be  his  first  and  last  visit  to  a 
patron. 

"  Barry  was  indignant  when  he  heard  the  non-success  of 
his  young  friend.  '  Why,  Talbot,  that  man's  name  is 
bruited  abroad  as  a  most  liberal  patron  of  art,  a  fosterer 
of  early  genius,  an  encourager  of  native  talent — how  I  have 
been  deceived  !' 

"  '  Never  mind,  my  dear  friend,  you  will  sell  the  picture 
to  some  one  else,  and  I  will  conquer  yet.' 

"  And  Paul  Talbot  did  conquer.  When  another  year 
had  gone  by,  he  stood  with  the  hand  of  his  friend  Barry 
clasped  in  his  own,  returning  the  warm  '  God  bless  you,' 
fervently  uttered  by  the  old  man  in  that  hour  of  parting. 

"  In  a  wild  tumult  of  feeling,  half  joy,  half  sorrow,  he 
stood  upon  the  deck  of  the  vessel,  and  watched  the  shores 
of  his  native  land  as  they  faded  in  the  distance. 


THE      UNFINISHED     PICTURE.  183 

'  The  sails  were  filled,  and  fair  the  light  winds  blew, 
As  glad  to  waft  him  from  his  native  home.' 

And  now  he  is  on  the  ocean — the  waves  are  dashing  against 
the  ship  and  bearing  him  onward — whither  ?  To  the  land 
of  his  hopes.  To  the  land  of  his  dreams.  Why  each 
moment  does  he  grow  sadder  and  sadder  ?  Why,  as  the 
crescent  moon  rises  serenely  in  the  heavens,  does  he  press 
his  eyelids  down  to  shut  her  beauty  from  his  sight.  ? 

"  '  Ob,  that  my  mother  were  here  !     Great  God  ?  yon 
moon  is  shining  on  my  mother's  grave  !' 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Wilt  thou  take  measure  of  such  minds  as  these, 
Or  sound,  with  plummet  line,  the  artist  heart? 

MRS.  NORTON. 

It's  holy  flame  forever  burnelh, 
From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  returneJh  ; 
Too  oft  at  times  a  troubled  guest, 
At  times  deceived,  at  times  opprest ; 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 
Then  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest ! 
It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 
But  the  harvest  time  of  lore  is  there. 

SOUTHKY. 

"  PAUL  Talbot  is  in  the  city  of  wonders.  Ivy-girdled 
ruins  of  the  time-embalming  past  are  lying  in  the  distance. 
Lofty  basilicas — their  altars  rich  in  votive  offerings,  of 
surpassing  magnificence,  surround  him  on  every  side. 
Stately  palaces — their  long  galleries  filled  with  the  noblest 
works  of  the  mighty  minds  of  old, — are  baring  their 
treasures  to  his  gaze.  The  '  dew-dropping  coolness  '  of 


184  PAUL     TALBOT. 

each  marble  fountain  gives  new  vigor  to  his  frame.  He  is 
excited,  bewildered,  dazzled  and  drunk  with  beauty;  and 
for  weeks  Paul  wanders  about  Rome  and  its  environs,  for- 
getful that  his  lot  is  still  to  struggle  and  to  toil.  When 
roused  to  action,  he  threw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  his 
art  j  and  the  consequence  was  a  long  and  severe  illness, 
brought  on  by  that  absorbing  devotion  which  often  kept 
him  at  his  pursuits  until  the  morning  dawn  peering  into 
his  room  reminded  him  that  he  was  weary  and  overtasked. 
For  months  he  lay  wasted  by  sickness,  helpless  at  times 
as  a  feeble  child ;  but  nature  triumphed  over  disease,  and 
he  wandered  once  more  beneath  the  blue  sky,  and  felt  the 
kiss  of  the  balmy  air  upon  his  pallid  cheek. 

"  From  his  walks  upon  the  Pincian  Hill,  Paul  could  look 
upon  the  vast  pile  of  the  Vatican,  with  its  Sistine  Chapel, 
rendered  immortal  by  the  genius  of  Michael  Angelo. 
Through  maze  of  temple,  church  and  palace,  were  caught 
glimpses  of  the  yellow  Tiber,  whose  waves  reflecting  back 
the  rose-hues  of  the  setting  sun,  filled  the  artist's  mind 
with  dreams  of  gorgeous  Venetian  coloring,  as  he  slowly 
descended  towards  the  Porto  del  Popolo,  and  his  favorite 
retreat  in  the  gardens  of  the  Borghese.  Here,  under  the 
porch  of  Rafaelle's  Casino,  would  he  linger,  and  conjure 
up  visions  of  the  past.  Around  him  thronged  the  spirits 
of  the  mighty  dead.  Painter,  sculptor,  poet, — crowned 
princes  in  the  world  of  art !  true  prophets  of  the  beautiful 
and  good !  They  spoke  to  him  of  all  that  genius  had 
achieved,  of  all  that  genius  yet  might  do — soul  answered 
soul,  and  inspiration  made  the  weak  one  strong.  '  I,  too, 
will  leave  an  imprint  on  the  shore  of  time.'  Thus  resolv- 
ing, with  a  return  to  health  Paul  returned  with  renewed 
ardor  to  his  task,  until  the  picture  on  which  he  had  long 


THE      UNFINISHED     PICTURE.  185 

and  earnestly  labored  was  at  length  completed.  He  had 
chosen  for  his  subject  a  scene  representing  the  hermit 
Peter  exhorting  the  people  to  join  the  Crusades.  In  their 
midst,  with  one  arm  outstretched,  and  the  other  raised  to 
heaven,  stood  the  enthusiast.  On  either  side  were  grouped 
mailed  knights,  and  stalwart  forms,  the  tillers  of  the  soil. 
One  gentle  lady,  like  the  weeping  Andromeda,  was  cling- 
ing to  her  lord,  and  a  villager's  wife  held  up  her  child 
for  his  father's  last  fond  kiss.  So  admirable  was  the 
grouping,  so  animated  and  life-like  the  figure  of  the  preach- 
er, so  eager  and  intense  the  emotion  betrayed  by  the  as- 
sembled multitude,  that  you  listened  to  hear  the  eloquence 
that  roused  all  Europe,  and  sent  prince,  peer  and  peasant 
to  rescue  the  holy  sepulchre  from  the  hand  of  the  Infidel, 
— to  cast  down  the  crescent  of  Mohammed,  and  to  raise 
the  cross  of  Christ ! 

"  And  now  came  that  fame  for  which  the  young  painter 
had  toiled,  and  to  which  he  had  looked  forward  as  his 
highest  guerdon.  Crowds  were  daily  drawn  to  his  Atelier, 
and  artists  who  had  themselves  won  a  world-wide  renown, 
bestowed  their  warmest  praises  upon  the  '  Hermit'  of 
Paul  Talbot. 

"  The  following  winter  Paul  passed  in  Florence,  and  day 
after  day  he  might  be  seen  wending  his  way  across  the 
Piazza  Vecchia  to  the  halls  of  the  Uffizzi,  where  the  Tri- 
bune, with  its  gems  from  the  hands  of  Rafaelle,  Michael 
Angelo  and  Titian,  almost  won  him  from  the  more  distant 
gallery  of  the  Pitti  Palace.  It  was  here  that  Paul  formed 
an  acquaintance  with  a  Florentine  merchant,  who  had  spent 
the  best  years  of  his  life  in  endeavoring  to  acquire  a  for- 
tune equal  to  that  of  his  ancestors,  whose  portraits  now 
formed  part  of  the  collection  belonging  to  the  Grand  Duke. 


186  PAUL     TALBOT. 

To  obtain  re-possession  of  these  portraits,  which  necessity 
had  compelled  his  family  to  part  with,  was  now  the  Flor- 
entine's ambition  ;  but  they  were  gems  of  art,  and  could 
not  be  purchased.  Failing  in  this,  the  merchant  was 
anxious  to  possess  copies,  and  having  frequently  observed 
Paul  deeply  engaged  in  contemplating  the  beauties  of  those 
treasured  relics  of  the  past,  he  engaged  the  young  artist 
to  paint  for  him  the  copies  he  desired.  This  commission 
led  him  often  to  Paul's  studio,  and  his  cultivated  taste 
made  him  an  appreciative  possessor  of  the  (  Hermit,'  at 
a  price  which  relieved  the  artist  from  fear  of  pecuniary 
embarrassment.  Paul  was  requested  to  visit  the  house  of 
the  merchant,  and  select  the  most  fitting  place  to  display 
the  work  of  which  the  fortunate  possessor  was  so  justly 
proud.  He  went,  and  in  the  picture  gallery  of  the  wealthy 
Florentine  was  opened  a  new  page  in  the  artist's  book  of 
life. 

"  Poets  and  painters  have  ever  an  eye  for  beauty  in  wo- 
man, and  when  Carlotta  Doni  entered  the  apartment,  lean- 
ing on  the  arm  of  her  father,  Paul  started  as  if  one  of  the 
bright  visions  of  his  ideal  world  stood  suddenly  embodied 
before  him.  The  lady,  too,  was  for  a  moment  half  embar- 
rassed, for  the  fame  of  the  young  painter  had  reached  her 
ears,  and,  woman-like,  she  had  been  wondering  if  report 
spoke  truly  when  it  ascribed  to  him  the  dark,  clustering 
locks,  and  the  lustrous  eyes  of  her  own  sunny  south. 

'Love's  not  a  flower  that  grows  on  the  dull  earth ; 
Springs  by  the  calendar ;  must  wait  for  sun — 
For  rain  ;  matures  by  parts — must  take  its  time 
To  stem,  to  leaf,  to  bud,  to  blow.     It  owns 
A  richer  soil,  and  boasts  a  quicker  seed ! 
You  look  for  it,  and  see  it  not ;  and  lo ! 


THE      UNFINISHED     PICTURE.  187 

E'en  while  you  look  the  peerless  flower  is  up, 
Consummate  in  the  birth !' 

"  Was  it  strange  that  Paul  and  Carlotta,  both  worship- 
pers of  the  beautiful,  with  souls  alive  to  the  most  holy 
sympathies  of  our  nature,  was  it  strange  that  they  should 
love? 

"  Paul  had  hitherto  lived  for  his  art  alone.  Painting 
was  the  mistress  he  had  ever  wooed  with  intense  devotion, 
but  now  another  claimed  his  homage,  and  he  bowed  with  a 
fervor  little  less  than  idolatrous  at  woman's  shrine.  Such 
a  love  could  not  long  remain  concealed.  The  father  of 
Carlotta,  though  a  patron  of  art,  was  yet  a  vain  and  purse- 
proud  man.  Hoping  by  his  wealth  to  obtain  a  husband 
for  his  daughter  among  some  of  the  haughty  but  decayed 
nobility,  he  frowned  on  the  artist,  and  forbade  him  his 
house.  In  secret  the  lovers  plighted  their  troth,  not  know- 
ing when  they  should  meet  again,  and  Paul  left  Florence 
with  the  resolve  to  win  not  fame  alone,  but  wealth. 

"  At  Rome  he  was  enrolled  a  member  of  the  Academy 
of  St.  Luke,  for  which  honor  he  had  been  presented  by 
Overbeck,  the  spiritually-minded  Overbeck,  who,  himself, 
the  son  of  a  poet,  has  enriched  his  art  with  the  divinely 
poetical  conceptions  of  his  own  pencil.  At  Munich,  one 
of  his  pictures  was  shown  by  Cornelius  to  the  King  of  Ba- 
varia, and  purchased  by  that  magnificent  patron  of  art  at 
a  price  far  exceeding  the  painter's  expectations.  At  Vi- 
enna, a  similar  success  attended  him,  and  he  returned  to 
Florence  after  an  absence  of  six  years,  with  fame  and  wealth 
enough  for  the  foundation  of  a  fortune. 

"  From  Carlotta  he  rarely  heard,  but  he  knew  her  heart 
was  his,  and  he  had  that  faith  in  her  character  as  a  true 


188  PAUL     TALBOT. 

woman,  which  made  him  believe  that  no  entreaties  or  com- 
mands of  her  father  would  induce  her  to  wed  another. 
And  Paul  was  right.  Carlotta  Doni  still  remained  un- 
married. In  her  the  budding  loveliness  of  the  girl  had  ex- 
panded into  the  fuller  beauty  of  the  woman ;  but  Talbot 
was  sadly  altered.  The  feverish  excitement — the  contin- 
ued toil — the  broken  rest — the  anxiety  of  thought  to  which 
he  had  been  subjected,  undermined  his  health,  and  planted 
the  seeds  of  that  insidious  disease,  which,  while  it  wastes 
the  bodily  strength,  leaves  the  mind  unimpaired,  and  the 
hope  of  the  sufferer  buoyant  to  the  last.  The  father  of 
Carlotta  finding  that  neither  persuasion  nor  coercion  could 
make  his  high-souled  daughter  barter  her  love  for  a  title, 
consented  at  last  that  she  should  become  the  bride  of  the 
artist ;  but  many  said  the  wily  Florentine  had  given  his 
consent  the  more  readily,  because  he  saw  that  Paul  would 
not  long  be  a  barrier  in  the  way  of  his  ambition. 

"  Paul  Talbot  had  buffeted  the  adverse  waves  of  fortune ; 
he  had  gained  renown  in  a  land  filled  with  the  most  ex- 
quisite creations  of  the  gifted ;  he  had  won  a  promised 
bride.  Whence,  in  that  bright  hour  loomed  the  one  dark 
cloud  that  blotted  the  stars  from  the  sky  ?  Could  it  be  the 
shadow  of  the  tomb?  Was  death  interweaving  his  gloomy 
cypress  with  the  laurel  on  the  painter's  brow  ?  Oh,  no,  no 
— he  was  but  weary — he  only  wanted  rest,  and  his  powers 
would  again  be  in  full  vigor.  Then,  with  Carlotta  at  his 
side — with  her  smile  to  cheer  him  on — he  would  aim  higher, 
and  yet  higher  in  his  art. 

"  And  the  young  wife  was  deceived.  Although  a  name- 
less dread,  a  dark  prescience  lay  heavy  at  her  heart,  she 
yet  thought  the  bright  flush  on  the  cheek  of  Paul  a  sigu  of 
returning  health.  How  tenderly  and  anxiously  she  watch- 


THE      UNFINISHED      PICTURE.  189 

ed  lest  he  should  fatigue  himself  at  his  easel,  and  how 
gently  she  chid,  and  lured  him  from  his  task  into  the  open 
air  of  their  beautiful  garden. 

"  One  of  the  days  thus  passed  had  been  deliciously 
mild,  and,  although  mid-winter,  in  that  heavenly  climate 
where  flowers  are  ever  blooming  in  the  open  air,  each 
breeze  was  laden  with  the  heavy  odor  of  the  orange  blos- 
som, and  the  fainter  perfume  of  the  Provence  rose.  Stepping 
lightly  from  the  balcony,  where  with  Paul  she  had  been 
seated  watching  the  piled-up  masses  of  crimson,  of  purple, 
and  of  gold  that  hung  like  regal  drapery  round  the  couch 
of  the  westering  sun,  Carlotta  pushed  aside  the  opening 
blossoms  of  the  night  jasmine  which  intercepted  her  reach, 
and  gathering  a  handful  of  rose-buds,  carried  them  to 
Paul.  He  took  the  flowers  from  his  wife,  and  looking 
mournfully  upon  them,  said,  '  When  we  cross  the  waters 
to  visit  my  native  land,  we  will  take  with  us  some  of  your 
precious  roses,  beloved,  and  beautify  my  mother's  silent 
home ;  and  now,'  he  continued,  twining  his  arm  round 
her  waist,  and  leading  her  to  the  harp,  '  sing  me  that  lit- 
tle song  I  wrote  while  yet  a  student  in  old  Home.' 
Pressing  her  lips  upon  his  brow,  Carlotta  seated  herself, 
and  sung  the  song,  which  she  had  set  to  music.  The  air 
was  soft  and  melancholy,  and  the  sweet  tones  of  the  singer 
were  tremulous  with  emotion. 

Fill  high  the  festive  bowl  to-night, 

In  memory  of  former  years, 
And  let  the  wine-cup  foam  as  bright 

As  ere  our  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears. 

Pledge,  pledge  me  those  whose  joyous  smile 
Around  our  happy  circle  shone, 


190  PAUL     TALBOT. 

Whose  genial  mirth  would  hours  beguile, 
Which,  but  for  them,  -were  sad  and  lone. 

Those  hours,  those  friends,  those  social  ties. 

They  linger  round  me  yet, 
Like  twilight  clouds  of  golden  dyes, 

When  summer  suns  have  set. 

Then  fill  the  bowl — but  while  you  drink, 

In  silence  pledge  all  once  so  dear, 
Nor  let  the  gay  ones  round  us  think 

We  sigh  for  those  who  are  not  here. 

" '  My  dear  Paul,'  said  his  wife,  smiling  through  the 
tears  with  which,  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  repress  them, 
her  eyes  were  suffused,  '  this  sad  song  should  be  sung  on 
the  last  night  of  the  year,  the  night  for  which  it  was  com- 
posed. It  should  be  sung  while  the  student-band  of  artists 
stood  around,  each  holding  the  flower- wreathed  goblet  from 
which  he  might  quaff  in  silence,  while  his  heart-memories 
were  wandering  back  to  fatherland.  Let  me  sing,' — she 
paused  on  seeing  the  deep  melancholy  depicted  on  her 
husband's  countenance — '  nay,  forgive  me  for  jesting,  love, 
I  know  with  whom  are  your  thoughts  to-night,  and  will  not 
ask  you  to  listen  to  a  lighter  strain.' 

"  A  month  went  by  winged  with  love  and  hope.  Paul 
found  himself  growing  weaker,  but  he  looked  forward  to  a 
sea-voyage  as  a  sure  means  of  restoring  him  to  health. 
Carlotta  was  hastening  her  preparatory  arrangements, 
willing  to  leave  her  home,  willing  to  brave  the  perils  of 
the  deep,  in  the  belief  that  old  Ocean's  life-inspiring  wave 
would  prove  the  fabled  fountain  of  youth  to  her  beloved. 
She  had  never  seen  consumption  in  any  of  its  varied  and 
sometimes  beautiful  forms.  She  knew  not  that  the  eye 


THE      UNFINISHED     PICTURE.  191 

could  retain  its  lustre,  that  the  cheek  could  glow  \vith 
more  than  its  usual  brightness,  that  the  heart  could  be 
lured  by  a  false  hope,  until,  like  a  red  leaf  of  the  forest, 
dropping  suddenly  from  the  topmost  bough,  the  doomed 
one  fell,  stricken  down  in  an  unthought-of  moment  by  the 
stern  destroyer. 

"  One  morning,  when  Paul  had  remained  much  longer 
than  usual  in  his  apartment,  Carlotta  sought  him  for  the 
purpose  of  winning  him  abroad. 

"  He  was  lying  asleep  on  a  couch,  where  he  must  have 
thrown  himself  from  very  weariness,  as  one  of  the  brushes 
with  which  he  had  been  painting  had  fallen  from  his  hand 
upon  the  floor.  His  wife  softly  approached.  She  stooped 
and  kissed  his  lips.  He  opened  his  eyes,  smiled  lovingly 
upon  her,  and  pointed  to  the  picture. 

"  '  You  have  made  me  too  beautiful,  dearest;  this  must 
be  a  copy  of  the  image  in  your  heart.' 

" '  Ah,  I  have  not  done  you  justice,  you  are  far  more 
lovely,  my  own  wife,  yes,  far  more  lovely — my  mother — 
my  mother — '  repeated  Paul,  dreamily.  It  was  evident 
his  thoughts  were  wandering. 

"  { You  are  exhausted,  dear  love  ;  but  sleep  now,  and  I 
will  watch  beside  you.' 

Carlotta  knelt  down  and  laid  her  cheek  on  his.  Afraid 
of  disturbing  him,  some  minutes  elapsed  ere  she  again 
raised  her  head  and  turned  to  look  upon  the  sleeper.  She 
took  the  hand  that  hung  listlessly  by  his  side.  It  was 
cold,  and  she  thought  to  warm  it  by  pressing  it  to  her  lips 
— to  her  cheek — to  her  heart.  She  bent  her  ear  close  to 
the  sleeper — there  was  no  sound  ;  she  laid  her  lips  on  his 
— oh,  God !  where  was  the  warm  breath  ?  A  horrible 
dread  came  over  her,  and  unable  from  the  intensity  of  her 


193  PAUL     TALBOT. 

agony  to  utter  any  cry,  she  sunk  down  and  gazed  fixedly 
in  her  husband's  face,  realizing  the  heart-touching  thoughts 
of  the  poet, 

'  And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 
And  think  'twill  smile  again, 
And  still  the  thought  I  cannot  brook 
That  I  must  look  in  vain.' 

"  And  thus  were  they  found  by  her  father,  who  was  the 
first  to  enter  the  apartment.  Paul  quite  dead — Carlotta 
lying  to  all  appearance  lifeless  at  his  side — and  before 
them  the  unfinished  picture. 

"  When  the  fond  wife  was  restored  to  consciousness,  and 
felt  the  full  weight  of  that  misery  that  was  crushing  out 
ner  young  life,  her  reason  became  unsettled.  It  was  very 
sad  to  see  her  wandering  from  room  to  room  as  if  in 
search  of  some  lost  object.  She  would  frequently  rise 
with  a  sudden  start,  walk  hurriedly  to  the  window,  and 
stand  for  a  long  time  in  an  attitude  of  fixed  attention,  then 
mournfully  shaking  her  head  to  and  fro,  would  slowly  re- 
sume her  accustomed  seat,  and  in  a  low  voice  repeat  '  not 
yet — not  yet — Paul  still  lingers  in  Rome.'  Carlotta  re- 
mained in  this  melancholy  state  during  the  time  I  was  in 
Florence,  but  a  letter  received  since  my  return  home  in- 
forms me  that  after  a  short  interval,  in  which  reason  re- 
sumed her  sway,  the  sufferer  calmly  departed,  coupling  the 
name  of  her  beloved  with  the  rest  and  the  bliss  of  Para- 
dise. 

"  The  wretched  father  was  filled  with  self-upbraidings. 
But  for  him,  he  said,  Paul  Talbot  might  have  been  living, 
and  his  daughter  living,  happy  in  each  other's  love.  He 
spoke  truly.  To  gratify  his  ambition,  Paul  had  overtask- 
ed the  powers  of  life.  The  frail  shrine  was  consumed  by 


THE      UNFINISHED     PICTURE.  193 

the  flame  which  for  years  had  been  scorching  and  burning 
into  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  artist.  Too  late  had  he  ob- 
tained his  reward.  Too  late  had  Oarlotta's  father  con- 
sented to  her  union  with  Paul.  Too  late  had  the  old  man 
found  that  by  his  daughter's  alliance  with  a  man  of  genius, 
a  greater  lustre  would  have  shone  upon  his  house  than 
could  ever  be  reflected  from  his  glittering  hoard." 

Here  ended  my  friend's  narration,  and  while  with  him 
I  lamented  the  fate  of  genius,  I  could  not  forbear  blaming 
the  conduct  of  the  wealthy  Florentine.  Nor  could  I  help 
thinking,  that  too  often  the  golden  ears  betray  the  ass, 
while  wisdom,  virtue,  talent,  constitute  the  only  real 
greatness. 

9 


0  b  i  r  t       a  n  n  i  n 


CHAPTER  I. 

AT  the  annual  commencement  of  one  of  our  colleges, 
the  youth  who  delivered  the  valedictory  had,  by  the 
vigor  and  beauty  of  thought  displayed  in  his  address,  and 
by  his  polished  and  graceful  elocution,  drawn  down  the 
applause  of  the  large  audience  assembled  on  that  occasion. 
Not  a  few  eyes  were  moistened  as  he  bade  farewell  to  the 
venerable  men  under  whose  care  and  tuition  he  had  gained 
the  highest  honors,  and  to  the  schoolmates  with  whom  he 
had  passed  so  many  happy  hours,  and  who  now,  like  barks 
again  put  forth  to  sea,  that  had  long  been  safely  moored 
in  one  quiet  haven,  were  each  to  stem  alone  the  torrent  of 
life's  great  deep. 

"  He  !  he  !  he  !  that's  Bobby  Dunning,  his  father  keeps 
a  grocery  store,"  said  a  foppish-looking  stripling  who 
wore  the  academic  gown,  as  he  pointed  with  his  finger  to 
the  speaker  on  the  platform,  and  at  the  same  time  seated 
himself  beside  a  young  lady  in  the  gallery. 

"  He  !  he  !"  echoed  his  companion,  "  I  dare  say  he  has 
weighed  many  a  pound  of  sugar  in  his  time.  A  grocery 
store  !  What  queer  associates  you  have  at  college, 
Gus." 


ROBERT     DUNNING.  195 

"  Associates  !  No,  indeed,  Sophy  ;  when  Bob  first 
entered  I  thought  him  a  fine,  generous  fellow,  and  was 
just  about  to  ask  him  to  our  house,  when  I  found  out  who 
his  father  was.  A  lucky  escape,  by  Jupiter  !  I  soon 
cut  his  acquaintance,  and  made  him  feel  by  my  cool,  con- 
temptuous manner  that  the  son  of  a  grocer  was  no  fit  as 
eociate  for  the  son  of  a  gentleman." 

Again  the  young  lady  tittered,  "  That's  just  like  you, 
Gus,  you  are  always  so  high  spirited." 

"  So  my  father  says ;  he  often  calls  me  his  '  gallant 
Hotspur,'  and  laughs  heartily  when  he  hears  of  my  waggish 
pranks." 

Many  honors  were  that  day  borne  away  by  the  ambi- 
tious youths  who  had  late  and  early  sought  to  win  them, 
but  none  were  awarded  to  Gus,  or  as  he  liked  best  to 
write  himself,  Gustavus  Adolphus  Tremaine. 

"  Why,  Gus,  you're  a  lazy  dog,"  said  his  father  on  their 
return  home ;  "  come,  you  must  do  better  next  time. 
And  so  Bob  Dunning,  the  grocer's  son,  graduated  to-day, 
and  carried  away  more  honors  than  any  of  the  other  stu- 
dents ;  rather  strange  that !" 

"  There  was  nothing  strange  about  it,  father.  Bobby 
knew  he  had  to  get  his  living  somehow  or  other,  and  as 
Latin  and  Greek  smacked  more  of  gentility  than  brown 
paper  and  pack-thread,  he  abandoned  the  latter,  and  took 
to  the  former  with  such  avidity,  that  he  has  grown  thin 
and  pale  as  a  shadow.  A  capital  village  pedagogue  Bob 
will  make,  to  be  sure  !  But  something  more  manly  than 
poring  over  musty  old  books,  or  flogging  ragged  little 
boys,  must  be  my  occupation  through  life.  I  say,  father, 
when  does  that  race  come  off  between  Lady  Helen  and 
Bluebeard  ?" 


196  ROBERT      DUNNING. 

"  Next  week,"  answered  Mr.  Tremaine,  who  was  a  mem- 
ber of  a  jockey  club — "  next  week.  Well  remembered, 
Gus.  I  dine  with  the  club  to-day,  and  this  devilish  col- 
lege concern  had  nearly  driven  the  engagement  out  of  my 
head.  We  are  to  have  splendid  arrangements  on  the  race- 
ground  for  the  accommodation  of  the  ladies — a  find  stand 
erected,  covered  with  an  awning — wines,  ices,  pates,  and  I 
don't  know  what  all.  Sarah,"  turning  to  his  wife,  "  I  ex- 
pect you  to  be  there ;  mind,  none  of  your  vapors — and, 
Gus,  do  you  bring  Sophy  Warren  ;  she  is  a  spirited  crea- 
ture, and  would  make  a  capital  jockey  herself."  And 
with  this  equivocal  compliment  to  Miss  Sophia  Warren, 
the  elder  Treinaine  left  the  house. 

A  tyrant  at  home,  a  capital  fellow  abroad,  was  Oscar 
Tremaine.  Over  his  wife,  a  mild,  gentle  creature,  he  had 
exercised  his  authority  until  she  had  become  a  perfect 
cipher  in  her  own  house;  and,  unnatural  as  it  may  appear, 
he  had  encouraged  their  son  to  flout  his  mother's  opinions 
and  scorn  her  advice.  It  was  not  strange,  then,  that  Mrs. 
Tremaine  had  remained  silent  while  her  husband  and  son 
were  speaking,  but  now,  looking  on  the  boy  with  tender- 
ness, she  said, 

"  I  regret,  my  dear  Gustavus,  that  you  have  not  been 
more  successful  in  your  studies ;  how  happy  and  how  proud 
I  should  have  been  had  you  brought  home  some  token  of 
reward,  some  prize,  on  which  I  might  have  looked,  and 
said,  '  My  child  has  won  it !'  " 

"  Fudge  !  this  is  all  nonsense,  mother.  What  do  you 
know  about  such  matters  ?  Father  has  more  money  than 
I  can  ever  spend,  and  why  should  I  be  compelled  to  mope 
away  my  lifetime  over  the  midnight  oil,  as  they  call  it  ? 
I'd  rather  have  a  canter  on  Fancy  in  the  afternoon,  and 


ROBERT     DUNNING.  197 

then  to  the  theatre  or  opera  at  night — that  is  the  life  for 
me;"  and,  humming  a  fashionable  air,  he  turned  from  the 
room. 

His  mother  gazed  after  him  sorrowfully.  "  God  help 
thee,  my  child  ! — alas !  I  fear  the  worst ;  God  help  thee  !" 
she  repeated  in  anguish,  and,  feeling  how  "  sharper  than 
a  serpent's  tooth  it  is  to  have  a  thankless  child,"  she  bow- 
ed her  head  on  her  hands,  and  wept  bitterly. 

In  less  than  a  month  after  the  commencement,  Robert 
Dunning  began  the  study  of  the  law,  and  Gustavus  Adol- 
phus  Tremaine  was  expelled  from  college. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

"  CONFOUND  the  fellow  !  I  can't  take  up  a  newspaper 
without  having  his  name  staring  me  in  the  face.  Eminent 
lawyei,  superior  talents — superior  —  nonsense;  I  don't 
believe  a  word  of  it.  I  always  hated  him;"  and  the 
speaker  flung  the  offending  paper  on  the  floor,  apparently 
unconscious  that  that  very  hatred  made  him  blind  to  the 
merits  of  the  man  whom  he  so  berated. 

"  What's  the  matter  now,  Gus  ? — angry  again  ?  Was 
there  ever  such  a  man  ?"  exclaimed  an  ultra- fashionable 
lady,  who  swept  into  the  apartment  '  with  all  her  bravery 
on.'  "  Come,  I  want  you  to  go  with  me  this  morning,  to 
select  a  new  jewel-case.  I  saw  a  superb  one  the  other  day 
for  a  few  hundred  dollars ;  but  I  will  have  it,  no  matter 
what  it  may  cost." 

"It  is  a  matter,  and  a  serious  one,  too,  Sophia.     I  told 


198  ROBERT     DUNNING. 

you,  six  months  ago,  we  should  be  ruined  by  your  extrava- 
gance, and,  by  heaven !  you  must  put  a  stop  to  it." 

i:  And  I  told  you,  twelve  months  ago,  Mr.  Tremaine, 
that  if  you  did  not  quit  betting  at  the  race  ground  and  the 
gambling  table,  we  should  certainly  be  ruined.  You 
spend  thousands,  for  no  earthly  good  whatever,  while  I 
only  make  use  of  hundreds,  to  purchase  things  absolutely 
necessary  for  one  holding  my  position  in  society.  Once 
for  all,  let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Tremaine,  I  will  have  what- 
ever I  want ;"  and,  turning  to  the  piano,  the  amiable  lady 
ran  her  fingers  over  the  keys,  with  the  most  provoking  in- 
difference. 

"  Mrs.  Tremaine,  you  are  enough  to  drive  a  man  mad. 
Do  you  think  I'm  a  fool,  that  I  will  bear  to  be  treated 
thus?" 

"  Oh  no,  Gussy  dear,  I  should  be  sorry  to  suppose  such 
a  thing ;  but  you  know  the  lesson  by  which  I  profited  was 
learned  in  your  home.  There  I  saw  how  well  your  father 
could  enact  the  tyrant,  and  how  your  gentle  mother  was 
treated  like  a  slave ;  and  I  silently  resolved,  that  from  the 
hour  we  were  married,  I  would  be  mistress  in  my  own 
house." 

"  Where  is  the  use  of  repeating  that  nonsense  con- 
tinually ?  I  have  heard  the  same  story  a  dozen  times  be- 
fore." 

"  And  shall  hear  it  a  dozen  times  again,  or  at  least  as 
often  as  I  hear  the  word  must  from  your  lips,  Mr.  Tre- 
maine. But  come,  you  have  not  yet  told  me  why  you 
were  so  angry  when  I  came  in.  Let  me  see,"  she  con- 
tinued, taking  up  the  newspaper,  "let  me  see  whether  this 
will  not  solve  the  mystery.  Ah,  now  I  have  it — Robert 
Dunning,  Esq." 


ROBERT     DUNNING.  199 

"  Yes,  now  you  have  it — that  upstart,  whom  I  so  hate — 
to  see  his  name  paraded  in  this  manner  before  the  public, 
is  enough  to  drive  me  mad." 

"  No  wonder  you  hate  him,  G-us.  Only  to  think  of  his 
being  retained  as  counsel  for  the  heirs  of  old  Latrobe,  and 
gaining  the  suit  by  which  you  lost  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars !  Now  this  reminds  me  of  what  I  heard  yester- 
day, that  Dunning  was  about  to  be  married  to  Fanny 
Austin." 

"  Nonsense,  Sophia,  the  Austins  move  in  the  first  cir- 
cles." 

"So  they  do,  my  dear,  but  Fanny  has  strange  ideas, 
and  there  is  no  knowing  what  freak  she  may  perform. 
However,  I  shall  drive  there  to-day,  and  ask  her  about  it. 
1  ordered  the  carriage  at  one — ah !  there  it  is — will  you 
assist  me  with  my  cloak,  Mr.  Tremaine,  or  shall  I  ring  for 
my  maid  ?  Thank  you — thank  you — I  don't  know  when 
I  shall  return." 

"  And  I  don't  care,"  muttered  her  husband  as  she  drove 
from  the  door.  For  a  few  moments  he  stood  under  the 
heavy  crimson  curtains  at  the  window,  looking  listlessly  in 
the  direction  in  which  the  carriage  had  gone,  and  then 
taking  his  hat  and  cane  left  the  house. 

Just  one  little  year  had  passed  since  Grustavus  Tre- 
maine and  Sophia  Warren  were  wedded — but  one  little 
year  since  he  had  promised  to  love  and  cherish  her  as  his 
wife,  and  she  had  vowed  to  love  and  obey  him  as  her  hus- 
band, and  yet  such  scenes  as  the  one  above  related  were 
daily  occurring.  The  mother  of  young  Tremaine  had  long 
since  sunk  broken-hearted  to  her  grave,  and  his  father  had 
died  in  consequence  of  injuries  received  by  falling  from  a 
staging  erected  on  a  race-course. 


200  ROBERT     DUNNING. 

Shortly  before  the  death  of  the  elder  Tremaine,  the  law- 
suit had  terminated  by  which  he  lost  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars,  and  on  the  settlement  of  his  affairs  it  was  found 
that  but  a  comparatively  small  fortune  would  be  possessed 
by  his  heir.  Sophia  Warren,  "  the  capital  jockey,"  prided 
herself  on  her  marriage,  with  being  wife  to  one  of  the  rich- 
est men  (that  was  to  be)  in  the  city,  and  it  was  a  bitter 
disappointment  when  she  found  her  husband's  income 
would  not  be  one-third  of  what  she  had  anticipated. 

As  the  union  had  not  been  one  of  affection — where 
heart  and  soul  unite  in  uttering  the  solemn  and  holy  vows 
— where  "  for  richer  for  poorer  "  is  uttered  in  all  sinceri- 
ty— as  it  had  not  been  such  a  union,  but  one  of  eligibility 
— a  question  of  mere  worldly  advantage,  no  wonder  the 
peevish  word,  and  the  angry  retort,  were  daily  widening 
the  breach  between  a  spendthrift  husband  and  an  arrogant 
wife — no  wonder  each  sought  refuge  in  the  world,  from  the 
ennui  and  the  strife  that  awaited  them  at  home — no  won- 
der that  the  wife  was  recklessly  whirling  through  the  giddy 
maze  of  fashion,  while  the  husband  was  risking  health, 
honor,  reputation,  on  the  hazard  of  a  die. 

When  Mrs.  Tremaine  reached  Mr.  Austin's,  young 
Dunning  was  just  leaving  the  house,  so  here  was  a  fine 
opportunity  for  bantering  Fanny  Austin.  "  Ah !  I've 
caught  you,  my  dear,  and  Madam  Rumor  is  likely  to  speak 
truth  at  last — ha !  blushing !  well  this  is  confirmation 
strong — and  it  is  really  true  that  Mr.  Dunning  and  Miss 
Austin  are  engaged  ?" 

Too  honest- hear  ted  to  prevaricate,  too  delicate-minded 
not  to  feel  hurt  at  the  familiar  manner  in  which  Mrs. 
Tremaine  alluded  to  her  engagement,  Fanny  remained 


ROBERT      DUNNING.  201 

silent,  her  cheek  glowing,  and  her  bright  eye  proudly 
averted  from  the  face  of  her  visitor. 
-  A  woman  of  more  delicate  feeling  than  Mrs.  Tremaine 
would  have  hesitated  on  witnessing  the  embarrassment 
caused  by  her  remarks,  but  she  had  no  such  scruples,  and 
continued, 

"  I  contradicted  the  statement;  for  it  was  impossible  to 
believe  anything  so  absurd." 

Fanny  Austin  looked  up  inquiringly,  and  the  glow  on 
her  cheek  deepened  to  crimson  as  she  said, 

':  Absurd  !  may  I  ask  your  meaning,  Mrs.  Tremaine  ?" 

"  Why.  I  mean  that  you  would  not  render  yourself  so 
ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  society.  You  marry  Bob  Dun- 
ning— the  son  of  a  grocer — you,  who  belong  to  the  first 
families,  and  who  ought  to  make  a  most  advantageous 
match !  Why,  Fanny  dear,  no  wonder  I  contradicted  it." 

"  I  regret  that  you  took  the  trouble." 

"  Oh  !  it  was  none  at  all,  and  our  families  had  been  so 
long  on  friendly  terms,  that  I  thought  it  but  right  to  say 
you  would  not  thrgw  yourself  away." 

"  Allow  me  to  ask  why  you  speak  in  this  manner,"  said 
Miss  Austin,  now  fully  roused,  and  recovering  her  self-pos- 
session; "  if  I  should  marry  Mr.  Dunning,  how  could  I  be 
thought  to  throw  myself  away?" 

';  What  a  question  !  Why  the  man  has  neither  family 
nor  fortune  to  boast  of,  while  you  have  both." 

''•  As  far  as  money  is  concerned,  I  grant  you  I  have  the 
advantage ;  but  as  for  family,  few  of  us  republicans  can 
boast  on  that  score.  My  grand-mother,  and  yours,  too, 
Mrs.  Tremaine,  superintended  their  own  dairies,  made  but- 
ter and  cheese  with  their  own  hands,  and  sent  them  to 
market  to  be  sold,  nor  did  I  ever  hear  that  the  good  ladies 
o* 


202  ROBERT     DUNNING. 

were  ashamed  of  their  domestic  employments.  Your  father 
and  mine  commenced  life  with  naught  save  probity  and 
perseverance  ;  they  were  first  clerks,  then  junior  partners, 
and  at  last  great  capitalists,  and  we  their  children  have 
thus  been  placed  at  the  head  of  society." 

"  I  know  nothing  at  all  of  this  nonsensical  grand-mother 
story  about  butter  and  cheese.  I  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing  in  our  family." 

"  No,  I  suppose  you  did  not.  You  have  been  taught  to 
look  on  praiseworthy  industry  as  derogatory  to  your  ideas 
of  gentility  ;  but  my  father  has  always  delighted  in  recur- 
ring to  those  days  of  boyhood,  and  he  venerates  the  mem- 
ory of  his  mother,  whom  he  regarded  while  living  as  a 
pattern  of  domestic  virtue." 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  nonsense  talking  in  this  way,  Fanny.  I 
wonder  what  Baron  d'  Haut-ton  will  say  when  he  hears 
that  the  lady  he  wooed  so  unsuccessfully  has  been  won  by 
the  heir  of  a  man  in  the  '  sugar  line  ?'  " 

"  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Tremaine,  if  I  say  you  are  forgetting 
yourself,  or  at  least  that  you  are  presuming  too  far  on  your 
long  acquaintance.  My  parents  have  no  such  ideas  as 
yours,  about  fortune  and  family,  and  with  their  approval 
my  heart  is  proud  of  its  choice — proud,  too,  that  it  has 
been  the  chosen  of  the  gifted,  the  noble-minded  Dunning." 

"  Well,  Fanny,"  persisted  Mrs.  Tremaine,  nothing  abashed' 
by  the  gentle  rebuke  which  had  been  given — "  well,  Fanny, 
depend  upon  it  you  will  place  yourself  in  a  false  position. 
The  friends  who  are  now  eager  to  court  the  society  of  Miss 
Austin,  will  stand  aloof  when  invited  to  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Dunning." 

"  Friends  !  did  you  ever  know  a  true  friend  do  aught 
that  would  depreciate  the  husband  in  the  eyes  of  his  wife, 


ROBERT     DUNNING.  203 

or  lessen  the  wife  in  the  esteem  of  her  husband  ?  For  such 
of  my  so  called  friends  as  would  not  honor  the  man  I  had 
chosen,  when  he  was  well  worthy  of  their  highest  regard, 
I  can  but  say  the  sooner  we  part  company  the  better.  It 
is  not  the  long  array  of  names  upon  my  visiting  list  of 
which  I  am  proud,  but  the  worth  of  those  who  proffer  me 
their  friendship." 

"  Two  o'clock!"  said  Mrs.  Tremaine,  glancing  at  the 
pendule  on  the  chimney-piece — "  two  o'clock  !  G-ood 
morning,  Miss  Austin.  How  surprised  Tremaine  will  be 
to  hear  that  you  are  really  going  to  marry  Bob  Dunning." 

And  Robert  Dunning  and  Fanny  Austin  were  married 
— and  never  was  there  a  happier  home  than  theirs.  The 
wife  watched  for  her  husband's  step  as  the  maiden  watches 
for  that  of  her  lover.  Daily  she  met  him  with  smiles, 
while  her  heart  throbbed  with  a  love  as  warm  and  as  pure 
as  that  she  had  vowed  at  the  altar.  And  Robert  Dunning 
idolized  his  wife,  and  his  fine  endowments  drew  around 
him  a  host  of  admirers  and  friends,  until  Fanny's  former 
acquaintances,  including  Mrs.  Tremaine,  contended  for  the 
honor  of  an  invitation  to  the  gifted  circle,  which  weekly 
met  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Dunning. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  So  it  has  come  at  last — ruin,  final,  irretrievable  ruin — 
everything  gone — the  very  house  I'm  in  mortgaged.  Con- 
fusion !  But  I'll  not  give  up  yet — no,  not  yet !  I'll  see 
Browne  to-night — what  if  we  should  fail  ?  But  that  is 


204  ROBERT     DUNNING. 

impossible.  Browne  has  been  too  long  engaged  in  getting 
bis.  living  from  the  dear  public  to  let  it  scrutinize  very 
closely  the  process  by  which  the  needful  is  obtained.  If 
I  thought  I  could  win  anything  at  play — but  I  have  had 
such  an  infernal  run  of  ill  luck  lately  that  there  is  no 
chance  in  that  quarter.  Well — well !  There  appears  to 
be  no  alternative — and  when  it  is  once  done,  then  ho  !  for 
England !" 

Thus  soliloquized  Gustavus  Tremaine,  as  he  sat  at  a  late 
hour  in  the  morning  sipping  his  coffee  in  his  room,  for  his 
wife  and  he  had  long  ceased  to  take  their  meals  together. 
Separate  rooms  and  separate  tables  had  served  to  com- 
plete the  estrangement  which  caprice  and  ill-temper  had 
begun,  and  they  now  exhibited  that  pitiable  spectacle  of  a 
house  divided  against  itself.  And  what  is  more  pitiable 
than  to  see  those  who  should  mutually  encourage  and  sup- 
port each  other,  who  should  bear  one  another's  burdens, 
»nd  in  the  spirit  of  blessed  charity  endure  all  things,  and 
hope  all  things — what  is  more  pitiable  than  to  see  them 
unkind,  self-willed,  bandying  bitter  sarcasms  and  rude  re- 
proaches ? 

Oh,  that  the  duties,  the  responsibilities,  the  self-sacrifices 
of  wedded  life  were  better  understood,  their  sacred  char- 
acter more  fully  appreciated,  how  would  each  home  become 
a  temple  of  love,  each  fireside  an  altar,  on  which  was  daily 
laid  an  offering  of  all  the  amenities,  all  the  sweet  charities 
of  social  life.  How  would  the  child  who,  in  his  early  home, 
had  heard  none  save  kind  words,  had  seen  none  but  heart- 
warm  deeds,  who  had  been  trained  to  habits  of  submission, 
and  taught  to  yield  the  gratification  of  his  own  wishes  for 
the  good  or  the  pleasure  of  others,  taught  to  do  this  even 
as  a  child  may  be  taught,  in  the  meek  spirit  of  the  gospel 


ROBERT     DUNNING.  205 

— how  would  such  an  one  grow  up  a  crown  of  glory  to  the 
hoary  hairs  of  his  parents,  and  a  blessing  to  society.  But, 
alas !  the  spirit  of  insubordination  is  rife  in  the  world. 
The  child  spurns  the  yoke  of  domestic  discipline,  sets  at 
naught  the  counsels  of  his  father,  and  hearkens  not  to  the 
voice  of  his  mother — and  the  man  disregards  the  voice  of 
conscience,  sets  the  laws  of  his  country  at  defiance,  and  be- 
comes an  outcast  and  a  felon ! 

It  was  a  cold  winter  evening,  and  the  heavy  clouds  were 
looming  up  in  broad  masses  over  the  troubled  sky,  while 
the  wind  howled  through  every  cranny,  and  sent  the  snow- 
mist,  which  began  rapidly  to  descend,  into  the  faces  of  the 
stray  pedestrians  who  were  either  hardy  enough  to  venture 
abroad  in  search  of  pleasure,  or  wretched  enough  to  be 
obliged  from  dire  necessity  to  leave  their  homes.  Mr. 
Tremaiue  was  among  the  few  who  were  braving  the  fury 
of  the  storm.  He  had  left  his  elegant  but  cheerless  man- 
sion in  the  upper  part  of  the  city,  and  sped  onward,  re- 
gardless alike  of  wind  and  snow,  to  the  place  of  his  desti- 
nation. 

It  was  the  haunt  of  vice,  but  in  no  dark  alley  nor  out-of- 
the-way  nook  did  it  seek  to  hide  itself  from  public  con- 
tempt. No — it  reared  its  front  unblushingly  in  the  pub- 
lic thoroughfare — within  sound  of  the  church-going  bell — 
it  was  fitted  up  with  every  luxury ;  silver  and  gold,  polished 
marble,  and  costly  hangings,  in  lavish  profusion,  adorned 
the  place  which  fostered  every  malignant  and  evil  passion, 
and  made  human  beings,  endowed  with  immortal  souls, 
ripe  for  deeds  of  desperation.  The  man  who  robbed  his 
employer,  the  defaulter,  the  forger,  the  destroyer  of  female 
virtue,  the  murderer,  the  suicide,  each  and  all  of  these  had 
been  within  its  walls — each  and  all  of  these  had  taken  their 


206  ROBERT     DUNNING. 

first  lessons  in  iniquity  in  that  place,  so  truly  and  emphat- 
ically called  a  hell.  And  it  was  to  this  place  of  pollution 
that  Tremaine  was  hastening.  Here  he  had  staked  and 
lost,  and  cursed  his  ill  luck ;  yet,  with  the  desperate  infat- 
uation of  a  confirmed  gamester,  he  had  staked  again  and 
again,  until  all  was  gone.  On  entering  he  looked  round 
with  a  furtive  and  eager  glance,  and,  evidently  disappoint- 
ed, sauntered  toward  a  roulette-table  round  which  a  crowd 
was  standing. 

"  Do  you  play  to-night  ?"  The  speaker  was  a  tall,  slen- 
der young  man,  scarcely  past  his  minority,  but  with  a  wan, 
sickly  countenance,  and  the  premature  stoop  of  old  age. 
"  Do  you  play  to-night  ?"  he  repeated. 

"  I — I  believe  not,"  answered  Tremaine,  again  glancing 
round  the  room. 

"  You  are  a  foolish  fellow ;  the  fickle  goddess  may  even 
now  be  turning  the  wheel  in  your  favor.  Come,"  he  con- 
tinued, laughing,  "  if  you  have  not  been  at  your  banker's 
to-day,  I  can  accommodate  you  with  a  few  hundreds;"  and 
he  took  a  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket,  and  handed  them 
to  Tremaine. 

"  But  when  shall  I  return  this,  Grladsden  ?" 

';  Oh,  a  fortnight  hence  will  be  time  enough." 

Tremaine  turned  to  the  table  and  staked  the  money — 

he  won ;  staked  the  whole  amount — won  again ;  the  third 

time.     "  You  had  better  stop  now,"  whispered  a  voice  in 

his  ear.     He  turned,  and  saw  the  person  for  whom,  a  short 

time  before,  he  had  been  looking  so  eagerly;  but  he  was 

elated  with  success,  and  paid  no  heed  to  the  speaker.     The 

fourth — the  fifth  time,  he  won.     Such  a  run  of  luck  was 

most  extraordinary ;  he  trembled  with  excitement,  and  now 


ROBERT      DUNNING.  207 

determined  that  he  would  try  but  once  more,  and,  if  suc- 
cessful, he  might  yet  retrieve  the  past. 

"  Are  you  mad,  Tremaine  ? — you  surely  will  not  risk 
all  ?"  again  whispered  the  voice. 

"  All  or  nothing.  I  am  fortune's  chief  favorite  to-night. 
All  or  nothing,"  repeated  the  gamester,  as  if  communing 
with  himself,  ';  all  or  nothing  !" 

The  bystanders  looked  on  earnestly ;  for  a  few  moments 
there  was  a  dead  silence — then  Tremaine's  face  became 
livid,  his  brow  contracted,  and  his  lips  compressed.  He 
had  risked  all ;  he  had  gained — nothing  ! 

"What  a  fool  you  have  made  of  yourself!"  once  more 
whispered  the  ominous  voice. 

"  Not  a  word,  Browne  ;  perhaps  it  needed  this  to  make 
me  wholly  yours,"  replied  Tremaine,  as  he  walked  through 
the  crowd,  which  opened  to  let  him  and  his  companion 
pass.  When  in  the  street,  the  two  walked  on  for  a  time  in 
moody  silence,  which  was  first  broken  by  Browne. 

"  Well,  Tremaine,  that  last  was  a  bad  stake  of  yours, 
and  may  cost  one  of  us  the  halter." 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  told  me  there  would  be  no  blood 
spilt?" 

"  Well,  blood  is  rather  ugly  looking,  I  must  confess  ; 
but  if  the  man  should  wake  ?" 

"  Did  you  not  say  that  you  would  have  him  well  drug- 
ged?" 

"  I  did,  but  by  the  slightest  possible  chance,  I  find  it 
cannot  be  done  !" 

"  How  so  ?" 

"  You  know  it  was  expected  that  he  would  sail  in  the 
packet  from  this  port,  but  I  find  he  has  determined  on  go- 
ing by  the  steamer,  and  will  start  to-morrow  morning 


208  ROBERT     DUNNING. 

by  the  Boston  railroad ;  so  that  we  must  do  it  now  or 
never." 

"  Now  or  never  be  it,  then.  I  am  a  ruined  man,  and 
ripe  for  mischief." 

"  Again  the  two  walked  on  in  silence,  until  they  reached 
a  fine  looking  house  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Battery.  Here 
Browne  applied  his  key  to  the  night-latch,  and  in  a  few 
moments  he  and  Tremaine  had  entered  one  of  the  upper 
rooms  and  locked  the  door. 

"  Where  does  he  sleep  ?"  abruptly  inquired  Tremaine. 

"  In  the  opposite  room." 

"  And  you  are  sure  that  you  can  effect  an  entrance  with- 
out arousing  any  of  the  boarders  ?" 

"  Sure  !  I  wish  I  was  as  sure  that  he  would  not  wake," 
and  Brown  smiled  contemptuously.  "  But  you  are  not 
growing  faint-hearted,  eh,  Tremaine  ?  Come,  here  is  some- 
thing will  give  you  courage,  man;"  and,  taking  a  bottle 
from  a  side  closet,  he  placed  it  on  the  table  before  them, 
and  continued — "  fifty  thousand  dollars  !  I  saw  him  count 
it  over  this  afternoon.  What  fools  some  men  are  !  Be- 
cause I  flattered  him,  and  pretended  to  take  an  interest  in 
his  love  affair,  he  opened  his  whole  heart,  and,  what  was 
of  far  more  value,  his  purse,  and  displayed  its  contents  be- 
fore me.  But  it  grows  late,  and  we  must  to  business. 
Remember,  when  I  have  secured  the  money  you  are  to 
take  it  and  make  your  escape  out  of  the  house,  while  I 
shall  return  quietly  to  bed  to  lull  suspicion,  and  to-morrow 
evening  will  meet  you  where  we  met  to-night.  Now  do 
you  hold  this  dark  lantern  while  I  open  the  lock.  That 
will  do — put  it  in  my  room  again — so — all  right ;  come  in 
a  little  farther,"  continued  he,  in  a  low  whisper,  "  we  must 
be  cautious — the  money  is  under  his  pillow." 


ROBERT     DUNNING.  209 

Stealthily  approaching  the  bed  of  the  unconscious 
sleeper,  Browne  put  his  hand  softly  under  the  pillow  and 
drew  forth  a  wallet.  Thus  far  they  were  successful,  but 
in  groping  their  way  out  of  the  room,  Browne  stumbled 
and  fell ;  the  noise  awoke  the  sleeping  man,  and  the  cries 
of  "  Help  ! — robbers  ! — help  !"  rang  through  the  house. 
In  one  moment  Browne  was  on  his  feet,  in  another  in  his 
room,  where  the  money  was  given  to  Tremaine,  and  in  the 
noise  and  confusion  of  hastily  opening  and  shutting  doors, 
the  latter  escaped. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  detail  the  causes  which  led  to  the 
suspicion  and  arrest  of  Browne,  and  the  implication  of 
Tremaine.  Suffice  it  that  on  the  following  evening,  when 
entering  the  place  in  which  he  had  appointed  to  meet  his 
accomplice  and  divide  the  booty,  Tremaine  was  taken  into 
custody,  and  the  money  found  in  his  possession. 

Sophia  was  dressing  for  the  opera.  It  was  the  first 
night  on  which  she  had  laid  aside  the  mourning  worn  for 
the  loss  of  her  parents,  and,  determined  on  appearing  in 
a  style  of  almost  regal  magnificence,  she  had  placed  a  cir- 
clet of  jewels  on  her  brow,  and  a  diamond  bracelet  was 
seen  flashing  on  her  arm  amid  the  rich  lace  of  a  demi- 
sleeve  as  she  reached  out  her  hand  to  receive  a  note 
brought  in  by  the  servant.  On  opening  it  her  agitation 
was  extreme,  and,  hastily  dismissing  her  attendants,  she 
read  over  word  by  word  the  news  of  her  husband's  crime, 
and  subsequent  imprisonment. 

And  now  was  she  tortured  by  conflicting  emotions.  She 
had  never  believed  that  her  husband's  affairs  were  in  the 
ruinous  state  in  which  he  had  represented  them  to  be — 
but  she  could  no  longer  doubt.  Crime  had  been  commit- 
ted— disgrace  had  fallen  upon  them — and  then  came  the 


210  ROBERT     DUNNING. 

thought,  "  Have  I  not  helped  to  goad  him  on  to  ruin  ?" 
and  pity  for  him  brought  a  momentary  forgetfulness  of 
self — the  woman  was  not  wholly  dead  within  her  ! 

The  next  day  the  hateful  news  was  bruited  abroad  that 
Tremaine,  the  dashing  Tremaine,  was  imprisoned  for  rob- 
bery !  His  fashionable  friends  wisely  shook  their  heads, 
and  raised  their  hands,  and  uttered  sundry  exclamations. 
But  they  stood  aloof — not  one  offered  to  go  forward  as 
bail  for  the  unfortunate  man.  Not  one  of  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine's  gay  lady  visitors  went  to  speak  a  word  to  the  hum- 
bled woman  as  she  sat  writhing  under  her  disgrace.  But 
we  forget — there  was  one  !  Fanny  Dunning,  like  a  minis- 
tering angel,  strove  to  soothe  and  comfort  her,  promised 
that  her  husband  would  do  his  utmost  to  aid  Mr.  Tre- 
maine, and,  when  the  mortgage  on  the  house  was  foreclos- 
ed, took  the  weeping  Sophia  to  her  own  home,  and  was  to 
her  as  a  sister. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IT  was  not  in  human  nature  to  forget  the  repeated 
slights  and  insults  with  which  Tremaine  had  sought  to 
wound  the  feelings  of  his  old  schoolmate ;  but  it  was  in 
human  nature  to  imitate  the  divine  Exemplar,  to  forgive 
injuries,  and  to  return  good  for  evil,  and  Robert  Dunning 
promised  Sophia  that  he  would  do  all  in  his  power  to  ef- 
fect the  liberation  of  her  husband.  For  this  purpose  it 
became  necessary  that  he  should  visit  Tremaiue  in  prison. 
But  the  culprit  obstinately  refused  to  see  him,  until  at 
length,  finding  the  time  draw  near  when  he  would  be  pub- 


ROBERT     DUNNING.  211 

licly  arraigned  at  the  bar,  he  consented  to  his  admittance. 
Dunning  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  must  know  the 
facts  of  the  case,  at  the  same  time  assuring  him  that  he 
would  plead  his  "cause  with  pleasure,  and  that  there  was  no 
doubt  of  his  acquittal. 

"  The  thing  can  be  easily  managed,"  said  Tremaine,  dog- 
gedly— "  I  intend  to  plead  an  alibir 

Dunning  started. 

"  Is  this  necessary,  Mr.  Tremaine  ?  I  thought  the 
charge  could  not  be  proven  against  you  ?" 

"  Nor  can  it,  if  you  are  the  expert  lawyer  you  are  said 
to  be." 

"  Mr.  Tremaine,  let  us  understand  each  other.  Is  it 
important  that  you  should  prove  an  alibi." 

"  It  is." 

"  Then  I  regret  that  I  cannot  undertake  your  cause.  I 
was  still  under  the  impression  that  you  were  innocent." 

"  And  who  dares  say  I  am  not  ?  Did  you,  sir,  come 
here  to  entrap  me  in  my  words  ?  Who  will  dare  say  I 
am  not  innocent,  when  the  most  famous  lawyer  in  town 
shall  have  proven  that  I  was  far  from  here  on  the  night 
of  the  robbery  ?" 

The  last  words  were  said  in  a  sneering  and  almost  con- 
temptuous manner. 

"  I  must  repeat  my  regret  that  I  cannot  undertake  your 
cause,  while  at  the  same  time  I  assure  you  that  I  shall  be 
silent  as  to  what  has  transpired  between  us." 

"  Puppy !"  exclaimed  Tremaine,  thoroughly  enraged. 
"  Who  asked  you  to  undertake  it  ?  Who  asked  you  to 
come  and  thrust  yourself  upon  me  ?  Did  I  seek  advice 
or  assistance  from  you  ?" 

"  Mr.  Tremaine,"  replied  Dunning,  with  a  calm  and 


212  ROBERT     DUNNING. 

gentlemanly  dignity — "  Mr.  Tremaine,  it  is  vain  talking  in 
this  manner.  I  came  to  you  in  the  spirit  of  kindness — 
but  my  errand  has  been  a  fruitless  one." 

Before  Tremaine  had  time  to  reply,  the  door  was  open- 
ed by  the  keeper,  and  Dunning  passed  out  of  the  cell. 

It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  Fanny  heard  from  her  hus- 
band that  he  could  not  undertake  to  plead  for  the  accused, 
and.  gently  as  she  could,  she  broke  the  sad  news  to  So- 
phia. Browne  and  Tremaine  were  tried,  convicted,  and 
sentenced  to  the  State  Prison.  And  now  the  hand  which 
had  sinfully  lavished  thousands — the  hand  that  had  been 
kept  so  daintily  white  and  soft — the  hand  of  the  "  son  of 
a  gentleman,"  was  roughly  manacled,  and  linked  to  the 
brown,  hard,  weather-beaten  hand  of  a  fellow  convict.  He 
who  had  been  the  pampered  heir  of  luxury  was  now  to  be 
the  partaker  of  coarse  fare — the  daily  companion  of  all 
that  was  base  and  vile — and  the  nightly  dweller  in  the 
lone  dark  cell  of  a  prison.  He,  the  once  flattered,  courted, 
and  caressed,  was  to  pass  shamefully  from  the  haunts  of 
his  fellow-man,  and,  after  a  few  exclamations  of  wonder 
and  reproach,  was  finally  to  be  forgotten. 

But  there  was  one  secretly  at  work,  one  who  had  been 
spurned,  one  whose  noble  hand  had  been  flung  aside  with 
contempt — and  that  one  was  now  busily  employed  in  writ- 
ing petitions,  in  travelling  to  and  fro,  and  doing  all  in  his 
power  to  obtain  the  liberation  of  the  man  who  had  ever 
treated  him  with  insult  and  scorn.  At  length  he  was  suc- 
cessful, and  Tremaine  was  pardoned  on  condition  of  his 
leaving  the  State.  But  for  Browne,  who  had  been  rec- 
ognized as  an  old  offender,  there  were  no  attempts  made 
to  procure  his  release. 

It  was  with  mingled  feelings  of  shame  and  defiance 


ROBERT     DUNNING.  213 

that  Tremaine  ungraciously  received  the  assurance  of  his 
freedom  from  the  mouth  of  Dunning ;  for,  the  better  to 
avoid  observation,  the  latter  went  himself  for  the  prison- 
er, brought  him  from  his  convict  cell,  and  conveyed  him  to 
the  warm  hospitalities  of  a  happy  home,  where  he  was  re- 
ceived by  Mrs.  Dunning  with  that  refined  delicacy  and  un- 
obtrusive kindness  which  soon  placed  him  comparatively 
at  ease  in  their  society. 

A  strange  and  embarrassed  meeting  was  that  of  Tre- 
maine and  his  wife.  Sophia's  first  impulse  was  to  break 
out  into  invective  against  him  who  had  thus  brought  dis- 
grace and  ruin,  not  only  upon  himself,  but  upon  her.  Bet- 
ter feelings,  however,  prevailed,  for  she  had  learned  many 
a  lesson  of  late,  and  had  already  begun  to  catch  the  kind 
and  forgiving  spirit  of  those  with  whom  she  dwelt ;  so, 
after  a  few  moments  hesitation,  a  few  moments  struggle 
between  pride,  anger,  and  womanly  tenderness,  she  drew 
near  to  her  husband,  laid  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  and 
sobbed  in  very  grief  and  sorrow  of  heart.  "  Sophia  !" 
"  Tremaine  !"  were  the  only  words  uttered  during  that  first 
outburst  of  anguish.  But  soon  the  fountain  of  thought 
was  unsealed,  when,  instead  of  taunts  and  mutual  up- 
braidings,  the  bitter  lessons  learned  in  the  school  of  ad- 
versity made  them  self-accusing,  and  willing  to  excuse  each 
other. 

But  little  time  was  given  to  make  arrangements  for  the 
departure  of  Tremaine,  who  had  determined  not  only  on 
leaving  the  State  but  the  country.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dun- 
ning wished  Sophia  to  remain  with  them,  at  least  until  her 
husband  had  procured  some  situation  which  might  afford 
him  a  competent  support.  But  Sophia  would  not  listen 
to  this — she  would  go  with  him — "  she  could  do  many 


214  ROBERT     DUNNING. 

things,"  she  said,  "  to  aid  him."  Fanny  Dunning  smiled, 
but  she  knew  that  Sophia  was  right  in  thus  fulfilling  her 
wifely  duties,  and  both  herself  and  her  husband  prepared 
everything  necessary  for  the  comfort  of  the  voyagers. 

It  was  a  bright  morning  in  May,  when  these  true  and 
tried  friends  accompanied  Tremaine  and  his  wife  in  the 
noble  ship  which  bore  them  down  the  bay,  and  with  many 
a  warm  tear  and  repeated  blessing  wished  them  a  prosper- 
ous voyage  to  England,  and  returned  to  the  city. 

And  now  we  cannot  better  conclude  their  story  than  by 
giving  an  extract  from  a  letter,  written  some  time  after 
the  occurrence  of  the  events  already  related,  by  Mr.  Tre- 
maine to  his  friend  Judge  Dunning. 

"  I  must  congratulate  you,  my  dear  Dunning,  on  your 
elevation  to  the  bench ;  but  I  must  not  allow  myself  to 
utter  all  the  praises  that  are  swelling  at  my  heart,  nor  does 
it  require  words  to  convey  to  you  my  respect,  my  esteem, 
my  gratitude,  and  my  love — ay,  my  love — for  I  do  love 
you  as  a  brother. 

"  Sophy  bids  me  haste  and  tell  you  our  good  fortune — 
Softly,  dear  wife,  I  will  do  so  in  a  moment  or  two.  You 
may  perhaps  recollect,  my  dear  friend,  that  I  wrote  you 
how  difficult  it  was  for  me  to  procure  employment  on  my 
first  arrival  in  Liverpool,  and  that  this  was  mainly  owing 
to  my  total  ignorance  of  any  kind  of  business.  Indeed, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  few  valuables  belonging  to  my  wife, 
which  she  cheerfully  parted  with,  and  had  it  not  been  for 
her  kind  and  encouraging  words,  I  should  have  yielded  to 
despair.  You  know,  too,  my  dear  Dunning,  that,  glad  to 
do  anything  in  honesty,  I  at  last  obtained  a  situation  as 
clerk  in  a  grocery  store. 

"  How  often  has  my  cheek  burned  with  shame,  at  the 


ROBERT     DUNNING.  1£ 

recollection  of  my  silly  contempt  for  trades-people,  when 
I  was  worse  than  idling  away  my  time  at  college  ?  How 
often  has  my  heart  smote  me  when  I  thought  of  my  con- 
duct toward  you,  my  noble-minded,  my  best  earthly  friend  ? 
But  why  repeat  all  this  ?  You  have  long  since  forgiven 
me,  and  yet  I  never  can  forgive  myself.  And  now  for  my 
good  fortune.  My  employer  has  enlarged  his  business  and 
taken  me  into  partnership,  so  that  I  am  in  a  fair  way  of 
being  once  more  a  rich  man,  (and  may  I  not  add,  a  wiser 
one  ?)  and  your  little  namesake  here,  Robert  Dunning, 
who  is  standing  at  my  knee,  is  in  an  equally  fair  way  of 
remaining  what  he  now  is — the  son  of  a  grocer.  Heaven 
grant  that  he  may  in  everything  resemble  the  man  to  whom 
his  father  once  used  the  words  as  a  term  of  reproach. 
This  is  now  my  highest  earthly  ambition  for  my  boy,  and 
I  pray  that  my  own  lessons  in  the  school  of  adversity 
may  enable  me  to  teach  him  to  place  a  juster  estimate 
on  the  empty  distinctions  of  society,  and  to  learn  how  true 
are  the  words  of  the  poet — 

'  Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise  ; 
Act  well  thy  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies.' " 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  "TTTHAT  a  charming  hawthorn  hedge  !  I  see  the  old 
' '  gentleman  has  not  forgotten  his  home  sympathies 
in  this  land  of  his  adoption.  Would  you  believe,  O'Neil, 
that  my  uncle  actually  sent  to  Fermanagh  for  the  cuttings 
for  that  hedge  ?  I  remember  the  day  when  Luke  Fehely, 
who  had  been  one  of  my  uncle's  cotters,  was  sent  to  Coun- 
sellor Johnson  with  the  request  that  he  might  be  allowed 
to  carry  away  the  prunings  of  the  old  hawthorn,  which  had 
been  the  pride  of  Sherry  Mount,  once  my  uncle's  hospit- 
able home.  The  prunings  were  given,  sent  to  this  country, 
and,  in  a  letter  afterward  received  by  my  father,  my  uncle 
poured  out  his  heart  in  thankfulness  that  he  was  once  more 
permitted  to  inhale  the  fragrance  of  the  white  blossoms 
from  dear  Cherry  Mount.  By  many,  in  this  working-day- 
world,  a  hankering  after  the  familiar  and  pleasant  things 
of  an  early  home,  would  be  looked  upon  as  sentimental 
and  romantic ;  not  so  with  the  Irishman ;  he  loves  every 
blade  of  grass  on  which  he  has  seen  the  dew  twinkle  in  the 
calmness  of  a  summer  morning — every  green  hill  over 
which  his  foot  wandered  in  boyhood  is  an  oasis  in  his  mem- 
ory— the  river  by  which  he  sat  in  happy  listlessness  baiting 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  217 

his  hook  for  the  young  trout,  glasses  the  blue  heavens 
more  beautifully  than  any  other  stream  in  the  world — the 
fairy  rings  in  the  grass — and  the  fairy  bridge  across  the 
waterfall,  and  the  wild  clefts  by  the  seashore,  where  he 
shouted  and  laughed  to  awake  the  deep  echoes,  or  where, 
in  melancholy  mood,  his  flute  breathed  the  soul-thrilling 
music  of  his  national  melodies — where — where  in  the 
whole  universe  could  he  find  aught  so  lovely  ?" 

"  Upon  my  honor  and  word,  Ned,  you  at  least  have 
brought  your  romance  with  you.  Are  we  to  stand  any 
longer  here,  or  will  you  at  once  try  what  reception  we  shall 
meet  with  ?" 

The  young  man  to  whom  these  last  words  were  addressed 
was  above  the  middle  height,  with  fair  complexion,  an  ex- 
pansive and  intellectual  forehead,  shaded  by  hair  of  that 
soft,  rich  brown  which  seems  as  if  the  golden  sunbeams 
floated  in  its  meshes,  eyes  of  deep  blue,  of  a  singularly 
mild  and  touching  expression.  At  first  glance  you  might 
suppose  him  inclined  to  melancholy,  but  the  second  look 
detected  a  mirthful  expression  lurking  about  the  mouth, 
which  proved  him  to  be  that  not  uncommon  character 
among  his  countrymen,  made  up  of  mirth  and  sentiment, 
gay  and  sad  by  turns,  with  too  much  heart  to  permit  them 
to  pass  unscathed  through  the  trials  of  this  life,  and  whose 
impulses  are  often  at  war  with,  and  gain  the  mastery  over, 
their  judgment. 

His  companion  was  apparently  younger,  not  so  tall,  with 
eyes  and  hair  black  as  night,  and  with  a  look  of  such  per- 
fect joyousness,  that  one  could  not  behold  him  without 
fancying  he  had  given  every  thought  to  gaiety.  "  Mirth, 
with  tliee  I  mean  to  dwell,"  was  written  on  every  lineament 
of  his  handsome  countenance. 

10 


BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

passed  the  hawthorn  hedge,  and  were  soon  enter- 
ing a  noble  gateway,  on  each  side  of  which  a  stately  elm 
threw  its  shade.  As  they  approached  the  house  in  the 
balmy  twilight  of  a  delicious  June  evening,  a  low  strain 
of  music  was  heard,  and 

"  0  breathe  not  his  name" 

was  warbled  with  such  heart- touching  pathos,  that  the 
strangers  paused  and  stood  riveted  to  the  spot  until  the 
strain  ceased.  There  were  lights  in  the  apartment  whence 
the  sounds  proceeded,  and  through  the  open  window  they 
could  look  upon  the  group  within  Seated  at  the  piano 
was  a  fair  young  girl,  with  a  form  of  the  most  faultless 
proportions,  and  a  face  of  exquisite  beauty.  Hanging 
over  her,  with  the  enamored  yet  uneasy  expression  of  one 
to  whom  love  is  the  plague-spot  in  the  heart,  was  a  man 
about  thirty  years  of  age;  his  figure  was  tall  and  com- 
manding, and  his  perfectly  chiseled-features  were  more 
than  handsome  ;  but  the  expression  of  his  countenance  was 
dark  and  sinister,  and  his  flashing  eye  had  so  much  of  the 
devil  in  its  furtive  glances,  that  the  favorable  impression 
which  might  otherwise  have  been  produced  by  his  beauty, 
was  totally  destroyed.  At  a  table,  in  the  middle  of  the 
apartment,  sat  a  man  on  whose  head  the  snows  of  sixty 
winters  had  fallen  so  lightly  that  they  had  not  chilled  the 
warm  blood  which  mantled  in  his  cheek ;  he  was  looking 
over  the  daily  papers,  and  occasionally  addressing  a  remark 
to  a  lady  near  him,  whose  cap  and  kerchief  showed  her  to 
be  the  mother  and  the  matron.  On  an  ottoman,  her  lap 
filled  with  flowers,  her  dark  hair  decked  with  a  cluster  of 
moss  rose-buds,  her  face  gladsome  with  one  of  those  bright 
smiles  which  beam  from  a  happy  heart,  reclined  the 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  219 

youngest  of  the  group ;  a  harp  stood  near  her,  over  which 
was  carelessly  flung  a  wreath  she  had  been  weaving  from 
the  fragrant  hoard  of  blossoms. 

A  Magdalene  of  Carlo  Dolci,  and  one  of  Salvator  Rosa's 
scenes  of  dark  and  magnificent  grandeur  were  suspended 
from  the  walls ;  a  small  marble  statue  stood  in  a  recess, 
near  which  was  a  bracket  filled  with  volumes  richly  and 
tastefully  bound.  It  was  a  home-scene,  full  of  simple  ele- 
gance and  quiet  beauty,  and  the  elder  of  the  two  travellers 
stood  gazing,  lost  in  reverie,  until  aroused  by  the  voice  of 
his  merry  companion. 

"  Come,  come,  Ned,  this  will  never  do  ;  if  you  can  live 
upon  sights  and  sounds,  I  cannot ;  if  your  uncle  will  only 
regale  us  with  a  sandwich  or  two,  and  a  glass  of  good  wine 
by  way  of  a  tonic,  why  then  I'll  listen  to  the  music,  and 
admire  the  ladies,  as  becometh  a  man  of  gallantry  to  do  ; 
but  if  not,  I  shall  positively  decamp,  and  take  up  my  abode 
with  mine  host  of  the  inn." 

There  was  no  need  for  putting  this  threat  into  execution, 
for  when  the  strangers  were  announced,  and  the  taller  of 
the  two  introduced  himself  as  Edward  Ogilby,  the  son  of 
Mr.  Acheson's  only  sister,  and  his  companion  as  Mr.  Harry 
O'Neil,  his  very  intimate  friend,  the  heart  of  every  mem- 
ber of  the  family  expanded  with  kindness  toward  their 
guests,  and  a  servant  was  despatched  to  the  tavern  to  bring 
thence  the  young  gentlemen's  travelling  trunks,  for  Mr. 
Acheson  and  his  kind-hearted  lady  retained  in  all  its  fresh- 
ness that  hospitality  which  "  reigns  hearty  and  free"  in  the 
lordly  dwellings  of  the  rich,  and  the  thatched  cot  of  the 
peasant,  throughout  the  whole  extent  of  their  own  Green 
Isle. 

We  know  of  nothing  more  delightful  than  the  meeting 


220  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

of  an  individual,  who  has  long  been  an  exile  from  the  land 
of  his  birth,  with  another  who  has  but  just  crossed  the 
Atlantic,  and  who  brings  news  about  everybody,  and  every- 
thing, in  which  the  heart  is  most  interested.  What  a, 
shower  of  questions  are  asked  !  What  old  memories, 
treasured,  and  half  slumbering  in  the  shadows  of  the  past, 
are  again  stirred  up,  and  invested  with  new  vividness  and 
beauty !  New  links  of  affection  are  formed,  old  ones,  on 
which  time  had  imperceptibly  laid  his  decaying  touch,  are 
re-riveted — the  exile  is  once  more  young — he  asks  for  those 
who  grew  up  with  himself,  and  is  surprised  to  hear  them 
spoken  of  as  old  men,  and  old  women,  belonging  to  another 
generation ;  he  wonders  to  hear  that  the  sea  has  carried 
away  the  sand-hills  he  had  climbed  when  a  boy,  and  thought 
imperishable ;  or  that  docks  and  warehouses  have  been  built 
along  the  shore  where  was  once  his  favorite  bathing-place. 
These  are  strange  things,  and,  as  he  listens,  he  shakes  his 
head,  and  begins  to  feel  that  in  twenty  years  Time  plays 
strange  antics  ;  ever  restless,  ever  busy,  peopling  and  de- 
populating, rearing  up  solid  edifices  where  once  stood  the 
green  forest,  or  where  rolled  the  water  tide ;  letting  in  the 
moonbeams  through  chinks  in  walls  which  seemed  to  defy  his 
touch — beautifying  the  crumbling  turret-tower  and  the  old 
bastion  with  fresh  garlands  from  his  treasure-world  of  lichen 
and  ivy,  and  weaving  love-bowers  for  the  owl  and  the  bat, 
where  he  once  builded  pleasure-halls  for  luxury,  or  bridal- 
chambers  for  the  light-winged  Eros. 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  221 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  WHAT  think  you  now  of  Cousin  Blanche  ?  Is  she  still 
to  be  the  idol  of  your  dreams,  Ned  ?  She  is  beautiful, 
certainly,  but  such  an  icicle — heaven  help  the  love-stricken 
swain  to  whom  she  is  to  be  united  !  I  infinitely  prefer  the 
laughing  Mary,  with  her  warm  outbursts  of  feeling,  '  the 
smile  on  her  cheek  and  the  tear  in  her  eye,'  she  is  all  heart, 
and,  like  yourself,  has  a  perfect  passion  for  flowers ;  there, 
at  least,  your  tastes  are  similar ;  it  would  be  a  pretty  end 
to  your  adventure,  if,  instead  of  the  lily,  you  should  gain 
the  rose.  Arthur  Conyngham — " 

"  What  of  Arthur  Conyngham  ?" 

<;  Ha,  ha  !  so  you  are  roused  from  your  trance — there's 
magic  in  some  names ;  I  wonder  whom  Campbell  was  think- 
ing of  when  he  spoke  so  feelingly  of  the  '  magic  of  a  name'  ? 
I  tell  you  what,  Ned,  I  think  he  had  some  loveable  little 
body  in  his  mind's  eye,  some  embodiment  of  glorious  Tom 
Moore's  '  Nora  Creina,'  and  I  positively  believe  her  name 
was  Mary." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Harry,  cease  this  trifling — it  tor- 
tures me — from  my  very  boyhood  the  thought  of  my  Cousin 
Blanche  has  colored  every  object  in  life  ;  it  began  in  child- 
ish preference,  it  grew  with  my  growth,  and  strengthened 
with  my  strength,  until  at  last  it  became  powerful  enough 
to  break  the  ties  of  home  and  country,  and  send  me  a  wan- 
derer to  this  strange  land.  What  is  the  result  ?  I  find 
her  lovelier,  if  possible,  than  my  imagination  had  conceiv- 
ed, I  find  her  all  that  I  could  wish  the  woman  to  be  on 


222  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

whom  my  soul  was  lavished — and — gracious  heaven !  I 
find  her  the  betrothed  of  another  !  While  there  is  strength 
left  I  must  flee  this  place.  I  would  spurn  myself  if  I  could 
once  harbor  the  thought  of  playing  the  tempter,  and  win- 
ning her  to  swerve  from  her  allegiance ;  no,  my  progress 
through  life  has  hitherto  been  unstained  by  falsehood  or 
deception,  and,  dear  as  is  the  stake,  I  would  not  play  with 
counters  even  were  I  sure  of  winning." 

"  And  do  you  intend  leaving  this  charming  place,  where 
a  month  has  glided  by  so  rapidly,  and  where  the  kindness 
of  your  worthy  relatives  has  partly  reconciled  me  to  a  sep- 
aration from  the  Wicklow  belles  ?" 

"  And  where  the  child-like  gleefulness  of  a  merry  maiden 
will  soon  make  you  forget  the  leave-taking  with  your  Dub- 
lin beauties ;  is  it  not  so,  Harry?" 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of 
Mary  Acheson,  who  ran  playfully  up  to  her  cousin,  and 
threw  over  him  a  whole  shower  of  freshly-gathered  violets. 
Her  face  was  flushed  with  her  morning  exercise,  her  dark 
tresses  were  thrown  back  from  her  brow,  and  as  she  stood 
with  her  gypsy  bonnet  hanging  from  her  arm,  and  her 
light,  girlish  laugh  ringing  through  the  apartment,  a  pang 
struck  to  the  heart  of  Henry  O'Neil  when  he  saw  her 
cousin  Edward  gazing  on  her  with  undisguised  admiration. 

"  What  an  indolent  mortal  you  are,  Edward ;  here  have 
I  been  abroad  these  two  hours,  watching  the  glorious  sun 
careering  upward — trying  to  count  the  diamonds  on  the 
web  of  a  huge  garden  spider  that  has  taken  up  his  abode 
in  a  large  althea — chasing  a  humming-bird  which  was 
daintily  quaffing  his  nectar  from  the  woodbine — and  gath- 
ering pansies  to  spell-bind  thy  home  thoughts,  cousin  mine. 
Where  is  Blanche  this  bright  morning  ?  We  were  wont 


BLANCHE      ACHESON.  223 

to  ramble  together,  but  she  has  learned  naughty  things 
from  you,  Cousin  Ned ;  she  has  grown  almost  as  etrange, 
and  shy,  and  indolent  as  yourself." 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mary,  that  I  have  been  the  cause  of  any 
change  in  your  sister's  habits,"  said  her  cousin,  affecting  a 
laugh,  ':  but  you  forget  that  Blanche  has  more  important 
objects  to  engage  her  attention  than  spiders  and  humming- 
birds, or  even  than  pelting  her  cousin  with  two-faces-un- 
der-a-hood." 

"  I  cry  you  mercy,  coz  !  An't  please  you  better,  I  will 
chase  no  more  humming-birds — count  no  more  dew-drops 
— gather  no  more  heart's-ease — and,  hark  ye,  I  will  be 
cold  and  stately,  curtseying  thus — and  walking  erect,  after 
this  fashion,  with  the  air  and  tread  of  a  tragedy  queen — I 
doubt  not  but  in  time  I  shall  be  perfect  as  Mr.  O'Neil's 
beautiful  namesake,  or  the  immortal  Siddons  herself." 
And  so  saying  the  merry  girl  left  the  room,  and  her  laugh 
was  soon  heard  on  the  lawn,  where  she  was  trying  her  speed 
with  her  favorite  Carlo. 

"  What  a  joyous  creature  !  Pray  Heaven  your  life  may 
ever  pass  thus  happily,  my  dear  Mary,  my  bright,  my 
beautiful  cousin." 

These  words  were  uttered  by  Edward  in  a  low  tone,  and 
with  evident  emotion.  He  was  startled  by  a  deep  sigh, 
and,  on  looking  up,  saw  O'Neil  standing  in  a  recess  near 
the  window,  watching  every  movement  of  the  graceful  and 
light-hearted  being  who  had  just  left  them.  He  found  by 
Henry's  embarrassed  manner  that  he  would  rather  not 
have  been  observed,  and  in  a  careless  tone  remarked, 

"  I  believe  we  are  to  visit  some  of  the  most  picturesque 
places  in  the  island  to-day;  I  wonder  how  we  shall  dispose 
of  ourselves  ?" 


224  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

"  There  will  be  no  difficulty  about  the  arrangement. 
Mr.  Conyngham  and  Miss  Acheson  will  drive  together, 
Cousin  Edward  and  his  dear  Mary  ride  on  horseback,  and 
Mr.  O'Neil  will  take  his  place  with  papa  and  mamma  in 
the  carriage." 

These  trifling  words  were  uttered  in  a  tone  of  bitterness 
which  confirmed  Edward  in  his  previous  suspicion  that 
his  friend  was  fast  losing  his  heart  with  Mary  Acheson, 
but  without  noticing  his  manner,  he  laughingly  said,  that 
as  Mr.  O'Neil  was  the  better  horseman,  he  should  resign 
to  him  the  pleasure  of  escorting  his  gay  cousin.  Henry 
felt  ashamed  of  his  rudeness,  and  his  ingenuous  counte- 
nance showed  the  workings  of  a  mind  ill  at  ease ;  for  a 
moment  he  had  looked  upon  Edward  Ogilby  as  his  suc- 
cessful rival,  and  there  was  doubt  and  distrust  springing 
up  in  his  breast  toward  his  early  friend.  He  had  forgotten 
their  recent  conversation,  in  which  Edward  had  made 
known  the  nature  of  his  feelings  for  his  Cousin  Blanche, 
and  his  purpose  of  quitting  his  uncle's  house  ;  he  had  for- 
gotten everything  but  his  own  hidden  affection,  which  was 
hourly  gaining  new  strength  for  Mary,  and  which  was 
jealously  watching  every  word  and  every  look  bestowed 
upon  her  by  her  cousin.  Toward  Blanche,  Ogilby's  de- 
meanor was  gentle,  respectful,  distant,  while  he  treated 
her  sister  with  all  the  frank  warm-heartedness  of  his  ar- 
dent nature,  and  another  moment's  reflection  chased  the 
cloud  from  Harry's  brow;  and  made  him  feel  how  ungen- 
erous, and  how  unjust  were  his  suspicions. 

Cold  and  guarded  as  was  Edward's  conduct  toward  his 
Cousin  Blanche,  there  was  one  who  discovered  in  it  more 
of  passion  than  was  meant  to  meet  the  eye,  and  that  one 
was  Arthur  Conyngham.  We  have  before  said  that  with 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  2?5 

him  love  was  the  plague-spot  in  the  heart ;  he  felt  himself 
unworthy  the  pure  being  on  whom  he  had  placed  his  un- 
hallowed affections;  he  knew  that  he  was  indebted  to 
chance  for  the  position  he  occupied,  and  was  in  daily 
dread  of  disclosures  being  made  which  would  unmask  his 
character,  and  lay  it  bare  in  all  its  hidden  deformity.  At 
a  fashionable  watering-place  he  had  met  with  the  family 
of  Mr.  Acheson,  and  timely  assistance  rendered  to  his 
eldest  daughter,  when  her  horse  had  taken  fright,  secured 
for  him  the  gratitude  of  the  parents,  and  afforded  him  an 
opportunity  of  ingratiating  himself  into  the  favor  of 
Blanche,  while  his  elegant  exterior  and  fascinating  man- 
ners completed  his  conquest  over  a  heart  to  which  sus- 
picion was  a  stranger.  Thus  situated,  it  was  no  wonder 
that  he  dreaded  the  presence  of  one  whom  he  felt  to  be  in- 
finitely superior  to  himself  in  all  those  qualities  which 
render  a  man  worthy  of  a  woman's  idolatry.  He  saw  that 
Edward  Ogilby  possessed  in  reality  that  refinement  of 
mind,  and  love  of  the  beautiful,  and  high  sense  of  honor 
which  he  only  affected ;  affected  because  he  knew  Blanche 
Acheson  would  never  be  won  by  any  man  who  was  desti- 
tute of  these  qualities. 

Conyngham  was  sitting  alone  in  the  library ;  before  him 
lay  an  open  volume,  but  his  eyes  were  not  on  it ;  his  mind 
was  not  engrossed  with  its  contents,  his  whole  air  was 
gloomy  and  disturbed  as  he  muttered — 

"  And  does  he  think  to  hide  his  love  from  me  ?  fool ! 
can  I  not  see  the  flush  on  his  pale  cheek  when  Blanche 
enters  ?  does  he  not  speak  to  her  in  a  lower  and  gentler 
tone  than  to  any  other  ?  does  he  not  sit  as  if  drinking  in 
her  very  breath  when  she  is  singing  those  melodies  so  full 
of  pathos  and  of  passion  ?  fool !  cursed  fool !  if  he  dare  to 
10* 


226  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

cross  my  path,  by  yon  heaven,  the  last  drop  of  his  treach- 
erous heart-blood  shall  be  drained  for  my  revenge  !" 

'•  Mr.  Conyngham  —  Mr.  Conyngham  —  where  in  the 
name  of  wonder  have  you  hid  yourself?  As  usual — in  the 
library — drinking  from  the  pure  well  of  English  undented  ? 
No  !  as  I  live,  pouring  over  that  false-hearted  sentimental- 
ist Rousseau  !  How  can  you  admire  that  selfish  man  ?" 

"  All  men  are  selfish,  Mary,  nor  do  I  think  the  phi- 
losopher of  Lausanne  has  any  claim  to  pre  eminence  in  this 
common  failing ;  and,  even  if  he  had,  the  beauty  of  his 
language,  the  delicious  softness  of  his  pictures,  and  the  im- 
passioned sentiment  breathing  through  every  page,  would 
gain  him  favor  with  every  one  who  did  not  wish  to  appear 
a  saint." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  appear  a  saint,  and  yet  I  think  there 
are  few  writers,  if  any,  whose  works  have  a  more  dangerous 
tendency  than  those  of  Rousseau ;  the  voluptuousness  of 
his  imagery  is  veiled  under  the  garb  of  sentiment,  and  the 
perusal  of  his  books  has  a  most  enervating  influence  upon 
the  undisciplined  mind.  What  more  bewitching  picture 
of  indolence  than  that  which  he  gives  of  himself,  floating 
in  his  boat  on  Lake  Leman,  and  indulging  in  the  most 
fantastic  and  idle  reveries  ?  With  what  flimsy,  though 
specious  sophistry  does  he  endeavor  to  make  that  appear 
innocent,  which  the  pure  heart  instinctively  shrinks  from 
as  criminal,  and — "  Mary  inadvertently  raised  her  eyes, 
and  saw  Conyngham's  looks  riveted  on  her  face. 

"  You  see  I  am  surprised,  Miss  Acheson ;  in  truth,  it 
never  occurred  to  me  that  '  Merry  Mary '  reflected  so 
deeply,  or  lectured  so  wisely ;  what  think  you  of  inditing 
another  book  of  homilies,  now  that  the  good  old-fashioned 
volume  bearing  that  title  has  fallen  into  disuse  ?" 


BLANCHE      ACHESON.  227 

But  merry  Mary  answered  not,  for  at  that  moment 
O'Neil  appeared  at  the  door,  saying  it  was  time  to  set  out 
on  their  excursion ;  and  as  his  friend  had  contrived  that 
he  should  ride  by  the  side  of  Mary  on  horsehack,  he  bad 
given  his  jealousy  to  the  winds,  and  a  merrier  pair  than 
himself  and  his  fair  companion  never  enjoyed  the  fresh 
breeze,  and  the  bright  heaven  of  a  summer's  morning. 


CHAPTER  III. 

As  Arthur  Conyngham  sat  by  the  side  of  his  betrothed, 
and  looked  upon  the  mild,  the  almost  angelic  countenance, 
and  saw  the  drooping  of  the  eyelid,  and  the  soft  blushing 
of  the  cheek,  when  he  whispered  of  his  love ;  and  as  he 
thrilled  to  hear  the  low,  tremulous  tones  which  responded 
to  his  words  of  passion,  he  thought  such  a  prize  worth  any 
sacrifice.  His  life  stream  had  hitherto  been  like  those 
dark,  and  turbid,  and  storm-vexed  waters  which  reflect  no 
heaven-hue  amid  their  gloom.  One  star  had  at  length 
arisen — and  he  had  worshipped — it  must  ever  shine,  shine 
for  him  alone  ;  not  one  ray  must  fall  upon  another. 

Their  road  lay  for  some  distance  through  a  fine  avenue, 
skirted  by  trees  whose  foliage  exhibited  every  shade  of 
nature's  beautiful  green ;  and  between  which  they  caught 
glimpses  of  gardens,  and  orchards,  and  dwellings,  and  pas- 
ture-fields, and  hills  whose  sloping  sides  were  studded  with 
the  dwarf  fir,  and  whose  summits  were  hidden  by  a  lofty 
canopy  of  waving  branches.  A  sudden  turn  in  the  road 
brought  them  upon  the  banks  of  the  noble  Hudson,  which 


228  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

at  this  spot  was  covered  nearly  to  the  water's  edge  with  a 
luxuriant  growth  of  vegetation. 

The  whole  party  alighted,  uttering  rapturous  exclama- 
tions at  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  and  Mary  bounded  away 
to  gather  some  blue  flowers,  which  were  hanging  from  the 
cleft  of  a  rock.  She  found  the  spot  more  precipitous  than 
she  had  supposed,  and  holding  by  the  young  trees  and 
dwarf  shrubbery  within  her  reach,  she  crept  downward  un- 
til the  prize  was  gained.  To  return  was  a  matter  of  more  N 
difficulty ;  looking  down  the  steep  she  saw  the  rocks,  and 
the  water  beneath  her,  and  her  head  grew  dizzy — one  false 
step  and  she  was  lost.  She  caught  at  a  large  wild  vine, 
but  it  was  decayed,  and  she  found  it  giving  way  within  her 
grasp — another  moment,  and  succor  would  be  of  no  avail 
— palsied  with  fear,  she  could  not  utter  a  cry — a  cold 
tremor  shot  through  her  veins — her  sight  grew  dim — her 
fate  seemed  inevitable — at  that  instant  she  felt  a  hand  on 
her  arm,  and  heard  a  voice  whispering,  "  Miss  Acheson, 
cling  to  me."  It  was  O'Neil ;  he  stood  on  a  small  projec- 
tion of  loose  earth,  with  his  right  hand  grasping  the  gnarled 
root  of  an  old  oak,  which  the  storms  of  centuries  had  laid 
bare,  and  with  his  left  supporting  Mary. 

"  Another  step,  my  dear  Miss  Acheson,  and  there  is  no 
danger — there — lean  on  me — thank  God,  you  are  safe  !" 
he  exclaimed,  as  Mary,  pale  and  trembling,  clung  to  her 
preserver,  "  and  would  to  Heaven,"  he  added  in  a  lower 
tone,  "  that  I  could  always  be  near  to  shield,  and  to  save 
you  from  danger." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  Mary  felt  that  those  few  words 
were  full  of  meaning.  She  answered  not  his  exclamation 
— she  echoed  not  his  wish — why  then  did  Henry  indulge 
the  hope  that  the  being  dearest  on  the  earth  was  not 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  229 

wholly  indifferent  to  him  ?  It  has  been  said  that  Love  is 
blind,  and  this  is  true  in  part,  for  love  is  often  blind  to  the 
faults  or  the  follies  of  the  object  beloved,  but  there  is  no 
dimness  of  vision  when  a  look,  a  touch,  an  indefinite  and 
impalpable  something  reveals  to  us  that  a  chord  in  another's 
heart  is  beating  in  unison  with  our  own. 

"  Mr.  O'Neil,  let  us  return  to  our  party,  we  have  already 
been  too  long  absent  from  them." 

"May  I  hope  that  I  have  not  offended  you,  Miss  Ache- 
son,  that  you  will  not  be  angry  with  me  ?" 

"  How  could  I  be  angry  with  one  to  whom  I  owe  my 
life  ?" 

As  Mary  said  this  in  evident  confusion,  O'Neil  took  her 
hand,  raised  it  to  his  lips,  and  breathed  a  fervent  "  God 
bless  you  !"  The  next  moment  Edward  Ogilby  was  at  their 
side  ;  one  glance  at  the  happy  countenance  of  his  friend, 
and  the  blushing  face  of  his  cousin,  made  him  fear  that  he 
was  an  unwelcome  intruder,  but  he  was  soon  re-assured, 
by  Mary  placing  her  arm.  within  his  and  relating  her  per- 
ilous adventure. 

"  You  have  at  last  met  a  knight  sans  peur,  sweet  coz, 
and  my  word  for  it  you  will  find  him  sans  reprocJie^  said 
Edward  aloud,  and  then  added  in  a  tone  meant  but  for 
Mary's  ear,  "  Never  glowed  a  nobler  heart  in  any  of 
God's  creatures  than  that  throbbing  in  the  breast  of 
O'Neil."  His  cousin's  face  and  neck  were  crimsoned  ;  her 
hand  which  rested  on  his  arm  trembled  slightly;  these 
were  mute  signs,  bat  Edward  knew  that  a  "  change  had 
come  o'er  the  spirit  of  her  dream." 

Leaving  the  seniors  of  the  party  seated  in  the  shade, 
watching  the  lazy-looking  craft  plying  their  way  on  the 
river,  and  chatting  of  old  times,  and  other  days,  Conyng- 


230  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

ham  and  Blanche  had  strolled  in  a  direction  opposite  to 
that  taken  by  Mary,  and  stood  looking  at  a  man  who  was 
seated  on  a  pile  of  logs  fishing.  His  dress  attracted  their 
attention,  for,  although  it  was  July,  he  wore  a  gray  frieze 
coat,  heavy  corduroy  breeches,  and  blue  woollen  stockings ; 
on  his  head  was  a  white  hat,  with  a  low  round  crown,  and 
a  broad  brim  drawn  down  so  as  to  conceal  his  face.  He 
repeatedly  jerked  the  line  in  an  angry  manner,  and  repeat- 
ed something  between  a  growl  and  an  oath  at  his  want  of 
success. 

"  You  seem  to  be  rather  unlucky  to-day,  my  good  fel- 
low," said  Conyngham,  "  have  you  caught  nothing  this 
morning  ?" 

"  Caught  nothin'  is  it  ?  no,  bad  cess  to  the  bit  of  a  fish 
there  is  in  this  river,  at  all,  at  all."  These  words  were 
said  without  raising  his  head,  or  turning  toward  the  person 
who  accosted  him. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  baiting  your  hook  so  unsuc- 
cessfully ?" 

"  Iver  since  six  o'clock  this  mornin',  and  barrin  an  eel 
or  two  that  I  wouldn't  be  bothered  keepin',  and  threw  back 
in  the  water,  I've  caught  nothin',  good  or  bad." 

"  Have  you  been  long  in  this  country  ?" 

"  About  two  months,  and  the  curse  o'  Cromwell  on  him 
that  was  the  manes  of  my  comin'  here." 

Conyngham  started,  his  acute  ear  had  caught  a  sound 
not  unfamiliar  to  him,  and  he  turned  to  hasten  away,  but 
his  foot  sinking  in  a  hollow  which  had  been  concealed  by 
long  grass,  he  was  thrown  forward,  and  a  scream  from 
Blanche  brought  the  stranger  to  their  side.  On  seeing  the 
lady  he  raised  his  hat,  and  displayed  a  face  of  most  sullen 
and  forbidding  expression.  Long  carroty  locks  bung 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  231 

heavily  over  a  low  forehead  until  they  nearly  reached  a 
pair  of  shaggy  brows,  of  somewhat  lighter  hue,  which  met 
over  small  red  eyes,  that  rolled  about  with  a  look  of  strange 
wildness  ;  the  lips  were  thick  and  protruding,  and  exposed 
a  set  of  short  uneven  teeth,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
long  familiar  with  the  pipe  that  was  thrust  into  the  breast 
of  his  coat.  Blanche  saw  all  this  in  far  less  time  than  we 
have  consumed  in  the  description,  and  she  involuntarily 
shuddered.  The  man  stooped  down,  raised  Conyngham, 
who,  from  the  position  in  which  he  had  fallen,  was  unable 
to  extricate  himself,  and  then  each  looked  into  the  face  of 
the  other ;  there  seemed  to  be  the  fascination  of  the  ser- 
pent in  that  look,  for  neither  spoke,  neither  moved ;  Co- 
nyngham's  face  was  deadly  pale,  that  of  the  man  with  whom 
he  stood  confronted  was  flushed  and  livid  by  turns,  and 
his  eye-balls  seemed  to  dilate  and  glare  with  fiendish  ex- 
ultation. 

"  I  swore  I'd  track  you  out,  but  I  didn't  think  to  find 
you  so  soon ;  I  swore  it  by  the  heaven  above  me  and  the 
hell  beneath  me,  when  I  stood  at  Phil's  grave." 

"  Hold,  man — what  mean  you  by  speaking  thus  in  the 
presence  of  this  lady  ?  Blanche,  dearest,  let  me  lead  you 
to  yon  quiet  spot,  while  I  speak  a  moment  to  this  strange 
fellow."  Seating  her  at  a  little  distance,  he  whispered, 
"  the  fellow  was  once  a  servant  of  mine,  he  was  confined 
in  a  mad-house  when  I  left  England,  and  I  cannot  think 
how  he  has  effected  his  escape." 

"  Oh,  go  not  near  him,  Arthur,  or  at  least  let  me  stand 
beside  you." 

"  Fear  not,  persons  like  him  are  more  easily  subdued 
by  gentleness  than  violence  ;  fear  not,  I  will  be  with  you 
in  a  moment." 


232  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

When  Conyngham  returned,  the  man  had  assumed  a 
dogged,  sullen  manner,  and  when  angrily  interrogated  with 
"  What  in  the  name  of  all  that's  infernal  brought  you 
here  ?"  returned  no  answer. 

"  Do  you  dare  stand  there  and  brave  me  ?  answer  me,  or 
by  heaven  I  will  throw  your  loathsome  carcase  into  yon 
river,  to  fatten  the  reptiles  you  flung  back  into  their  native 
element." 

The  man  looked  up  from  under  his  shaggy  brows,  and 
with  a  low  chuckle  and  a  malicious  grin,  said — 

"  Sure  you  wouldn't  be  afther  doin'  that  same,  to  fright- 
en the  purty  lady  foment  you,  masther." 

These  words  were  uttered  in  a  quiet  manner,  but  with 
the  ironical  tone  of  one  who  knows  his  adversary  is  in  his 
power,  and  that  the  time  has  come  when  the  trodden  worm 
may  turn  and  sting  the  foot  that  crushed  it.  The  allusion 
to  Blanche  restored  Conyngham  to  himself,  and,  perceiv- 
ing that  no  advantage  was  to  be  gained  by  threats,  he  as- 
sumed a  lower  and  more  conciliating  tone. 

"  Mick,  my  good  fellow,  why  are  you  so  obstinate  ?  You 
know  that  if  you  stand  in  need  of  any  assistance  I  am  able 
and  willing  to  give  it  to  you,  and  it  was  a  natural  question 
for  me  to  ask  what  brought  you  here  ?" 

"  Mr.  Ormond,  there  need  be  no  desate  betwixt  us  ; 
you  know  I'd  as  soon  believe  the  father  of  lies  himself,  as 
believe  you ;  you  know  there  can  be  nothin'  but  black  ha- 
tred betwixt  us,  but  if  you  give  me  somethin'  to  keep  me 
from  dyin'  of  hunger,  may  be  I'll  say  nothiii'  to  harm  you  ;" 
in  an  under  tone  he  added,  "  not  now,  but  my  time  will 
come  yet,  you  black-hearted  scoundrel." 

"  Here,  Mick,  here  is  money,"  said  Conyngham,  thrust- 
ing gold  into  his  hand  as  he  saw  Ogilby  and  the  others 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  233 

approaching ;  meet  me  here  this  evening  at  sundown,"  and 
with  a  motion  of  the  hand  he  waved  him  from  his  pres- 
ence. 

"  Where  did  you  meet  that  poor  fellow,  Mr.  Conyng- 
ham  ?"  said  O'Neil ;  "  by  his  dress  I  knew  him  to  be  a 
countryman  of  mine,  and  as  he  turned  his  head  I  thought 
his  face  like  Mick  Cassidy's,  a  man  that  had  once  been  a 
servant  of  my  father's,  and  left  our  house  to  live  with  his 
old  mother  at  Navan." 

Conyngham's  face  changed  color,  as  he  cast  a  searching 
glance  at  O'Neil's  countenance,  but  he  probably  saw  no- 
thing there  to  alarm  him,  for  he  instantly  replied — 

"  I  should  judge  by  his  brogue  that  he  was  from  the 
land  which  produces  '  the  finest  pisantry  in  the  world,'  but 
I  know  nothing  more  about  him.  The  fellow  was  asking 
for  charity,  that  he  might  have  something  to  '  buy  a  bit 
and  a  sup  for  Biddy  and  six  childer  she  had  at  home  wid 
her.'  " 

"  Oh  then,"  said  O'Neil,  good-humoredly  laughing,  "  it 
cannot  be  Mick  Cassidy,  for  he  had  neither  wife  nor  child 
when  I  left  home,  about  three  months  ago." 

When  Conyngham  rejoined  Blanche,  he  whispered,  "  Say 
nothing  about  the  man  being  mad,  love,  he  is  more  ration- 
al than  I  supposed  him  to  be,  and  I  concealed  his  malady, 
lest  he  should  be  put  in  confinement,  which  I  know  would 
break  the  poor  fellow's  heart." 

"  You  are  ever  careful  of  the  feelings  of  others,  Arthur, 
but  you  must  not  again  ramble  here  alone  ;  if  you  were  to 
encounter  that  horrid-looking  man  in  one  of  his  frenzied 
moments,  I  shudder  to  think  what  might  be  the  result." 

"  My  own  sweet  Blanche,  fear  not;  before  I  knew  you 
I  was  reckless  of  life,  and  plunged  into  the  midst  of  dan- 


234  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

ger,  but  now  that  a  new  existence  has  dawned  upon  me, 
that  I  have  you  to  care  for — to  love  me — you  for  whom  I 
would  peril  my  salvation — I  shrink  like  a  coward  from 
every  appearance  of  harm.  Oh  Blanche,  mine  own 
Blanche  !  promise  me  that  you  will  ever  love  me  thus  ten- 
derly— thus  confidingly — promise  me,  dearest,  as  you  now 
love  me,  promise  that  you  will  continue  to  love  me  under 
every  change  of  circumstance." 

"  Why  should  you  require  such  a  promise,  Arthur,  when 
you  know — "  and  the  timid  girl  paused — 

"  When  I  know  that  you  do — that  you  ever  will  cling 
to  me  unalterably — unchangeably — is  it  not  thus,  my  sweet 
love  ?" 

He  felt  the  soft  pressure  of  the  delicate  hand ;  he  knew 
by  the  slight  quivering  of  the  frame,  and  the  faltering  of 
the  voice,  that  the  heart-pulse  was  quickened  by  the  thrill 
of  love.  It  was  enough — he  would  brave  his  fate — he 
would  defy  the  demons  of  revenge  to  wrest  the  treasure 
from  his  grasp — he  would  wed  Blanche  Acheson  in  spite 
of  all  the  love  of  her  cousin — in  defiance  of  all  the  spec- 
tres of  the  past,  which  at  times  arose  to  mock  and  torture 
him. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  party  rode  home  by  a  longer  and  more  circuitous 
route,  through  groves  of  maple,  and  broad  woods,  border- 
ed by  the  wild  laurel  and  the  sumach  with  its  thick  clus- 
ters of  red  berries.  They  passed  through  a  beautiful  lit- 
tle village,  with  the  spire  of  its  neat  white  church  pointing 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  235 

up  to  the  blue  sky,  beyond  which  are  mansions  for  the 
weary  in  this  world's  warfare,  who  lay  them  down  trusting 
in  the  merits  and  the  promises  of  Him  who  is  the  resur- 
rection and  the  life.  What  different  feelings  held  sway  in 
the  breasts  of  many  of  the  group  as  they  alighted  on  their 
arrival  at  the  house  !  Conyngham  was  moody  and  silent ; 
over  Blanche  there  hung  a  vague  presentiment  of  evil, 
which  she  endeavored  to  shake  off,  but  the  cloud  on  Ar- 
thur's brow,  and  his  absence  of  manner,  would  not  allow 
her  to  remain  at  ease,  and  her  conduct  took  the  color  from 
his  own.  In  the  breast  of  Edward  Ogilby  a  strange  sus- 
picion had  arisen  concerning  the  betrothed  of  his  cousin. 
He  had  observed  Conyngham's  manner  while  conversing 
with  Mick,  before  O'Neil  interrupted  their  discourse ;  he 
had  noticed  his  alarm  at  Harry's  recognition  of  his  coun- 
tryman, and.  loving  Blanche  as  he  did  with  the  holiest  and 
purest  affection,  he  resolved,  since  she  could  not  be  his 
own,  to  watch  over  her  destiny. 

0  love  !  well  might  the  ancients  suppose  the  same  pas- 
sion could  not  produce  such  opposite  effects,  therefore  did 
they  fable  two  deities  who  presided  over  the  hearts  of  men. 
One,  thou  ennoblest  beyond  the  common  standard  of  hu- 
manity, thou  makest  him  kind,  gentle,  self-sacrificing — the 
desire  for  the  happiness  of  the  beloved  object  is  the  ruling 
motive  of  every  action,  yea,  even  when  called  upon  to  con- 
template the  bliss,  which  would  have  made  his  heaven,  en- 
joyed to  the  full  by  another. 

With  another,  thou  art  the  deadly  Upas,  overshadowing 
the  whole  life.  Jealousy  poisons  the  fountain  of  truth, 
and  those  streams  which  should  have  been  to  the  soul  re- 
freshing as  rivers  in  the  desert,  become  bitter  as  the  waters 
of  Marah,  and  he  would  rather  lay  the  soft,  smooth  cheek, 


236  BLANCHE     ACHE80N. 

and  the  ripe,  red  lip  in  the  charnel-house  with  the  worm, 
than  rest  them  for  a  moment  in  the  arms  of  a  rival. 

Not  of  this  latter  character  was  the  love  of  Ogilby,  nor 
of  O'Neil,  whose  face  was  radiant  with  smiles,  nor  of  Mary, 
as  she  bounded  up  the  steps  secretly  exclaiming, "  he  loves 
me  !  he  loves  me !"  and  when  seated  within  her  apart- 
ment, pressing  the  blue  flowers  to  her  lips,  those  flowers 
to  gain  which,  but  for  Henry,  would  have  cost  her  life,  and 
which  were  now  starred  with  the  tears  gushing  from  a 
young  heart  full  of  the  soft  delirium  of  its  first  love.  Let 
not  the  reader  suppose  that  Mary  Acheson  was  too  lightly 
won.  No  plain  avowal  of  passion  had  passed  the  lips  of 
O'Neil,  no  word  had  fallen  from  hers  to  raise  a  blush  upon 
the  cheek  of  virgin  modesty,  and  yet  she  knew  that  he 
loved  her,  and,  trembling  as  the  veil  was  raised  from  her 
spirit's  hidden  workings,  she  felt  that  henceforth  his  love 
was  to  be  her  world  of  happiness. 

As  the  last  glow  of  sunlight  was  fading  from  the  heav- 
ens, and  its  reflection  was  dying  on  the  waters,  and  as  the 
first  star  of  eve  was  glittering  in  its  lone  beauty,  a  figure 
might  be  seen  crossing  the  main  road,  and  leaping  a  low 
stone  wall.  It  glided  stealthily  along  a  narrow  lane,  each 
side  of  which  was  shaded  by  trees,  through  whose  branches, 
swayed  by  a  light  breeze,  fell  the  soft  beams  of  the  cres- 
cent moon,  dancing  from  leaf  to  leaf,  and  sporting  on  the 
green  sward,  like  happy  childhood  playing  with  its  shadow. 
On  reaching  a  wicket-gate,  which  opened  on  an  enclosure 
where  stood  a  small  white  cottage,  the  latch  was  raised 
without  noise,  and  the  figure  disappeared  behind  a  clump 
of  wild  shrubbery.  It  emerged  again  at  some  distance 
from  the  house,  and  pausing,  as  if  to  ascertain  whether  it 
had  escaped  observation,  quickened  its  pace  and  was  again 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  237 

lost  in  a  steep  and  dangerous  path  which  wound  round  a 
rocky  declivity ;  again  it  was  seen  swinging  lightly  from  a 
young  sapling,  whose  topmost  boughs  concealed  the  en- 
trance to  the  secret  road,  and  a  few  paces  brought  it  to  the 
spot  where  Mick  Cassidy  had  sat  that  morning  fishing. 

"  He  is  not  here — does  he  mean  to  balk  me  ?"  said 
Conyngham,  whose  stealthy  progress  we  have  just  followed. 
"  The  fellow  is  a  stranger,"  he  continued,  muttering  in  a 
lower  tone,  "  and  accidents  will  happen — what  if  he  should 
miss  his  foothold  ? — dead  men  tell  no  tales — their  lips  are 
voiceless — mute — mute  forever — ha  !  mute  forever." 

A  splash  in  the  water  beside  him — a  noise  as  of  a  strong 
man  struggling  with  the  waves,  and  the  voice  of  Mick  cry- 
ing for  help,  roused  him  ;  for  a  moment  his  better  nature 
gained  the  mastery — the  promptings  of  humanity  urged 
him  forward — the  next  instant  he  shrunk  back,  and  held 
his  breath  lest  the  drowning  man  should  discover  him. 

"  One  more  hould  of  these  slippery  logs,  and  I'm  saved 
any  how,  0,  meala  murther,  but  it's  hard  to  find  one's  self 
going  down  in  a  strange  place  like  this,  and  all  for  that 
cursed — "  Mick  was  not  suffered  to  finish  his  sentence  ;  a 
hand,  with  the  strong  and  iron  grasp  of  a  giant,  clenched 
his  arm,  and  unloosed  his  fingers  from  the  log  to  which  they 
were  clinging. 

"  For  the  sake  of  your  sowl,  don't  push  me  down,  I'm 
here  to  meet  a  gintleman  who  is  to  give  me  money,  and  you 
shall  have  it  all  if — "  just  then  a  current  of  wind  blew  off 
the  hat  of  his  unknown  adversary,  and  a  straggling  moon- 
beam revealed  to  Mick  the  features  of  Conyngham. 

"  Is  it  you,  you  murderin'  villian  !  sure,  I  might  have 
known  that  neither  grace  nor  good  luck  could  follow  any 


238  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

one  that  touched  your  cursed  goold ;  let  me  up,  and  I'll 
swear  niver  to  harm  a  hair  of  your  head,  Mr.  Ormond." 

Mick  had  again  succeeded  in  grasping  the  logs,  when  the 
same  powerful  arm  dashed  him  down,  though  not  until  with 
one  hand  he  had  caught  the  arm  of  Conyngham. 

"  Do  you  dare  to  grapple  with  me  ?  This,  then,  for  your 
presumption" — and  a  blow  on  the  temple  sent  the  unhappy 
man,  who  was  weak  from  his  recent  exertions,  back  into  the 
water. 

"  Oh — mercy — Mr.  Ormond — help — mercy — "  another 
struggle — a  smothered  cry — and  the  waves  closed  over  the 
wretched  being  who  had  so  lately  pleaded  for  his  life. 

Conyngham  shuddered — the  memory  of  other  days,  and 
other  crimes,  swept  over  his  soul,  but  this  was  the  first  time 
that  his  own  hand  had  sent  a  fellow  being  into  eternity,  and 
the  flickering  moonlight  thronged  the  place  with  shapes, 
wild,  deformed,  and  unearthly,  and  the  heaving  waters  re- 
peated, with  a  thousand  echoes,  the  moans  of  the  murdered 
man. 

Snatching  up  his  hat,  and  looking  once  more  into  the 
riverj'as  if  to  assure  himself  that  all  was  over,  he  mutter- 
ed, "  dead  men  tell  no  tales" — and  threading  again  his  con- 
cealed route,  soon  emerged  into  the  highway,  and  entering 
a  tavern  where  his  servant  sat  dozing  in  the  corner  of  the 
bar-room,  ordered  him  to  get  ready  the  carriage  immedi- 
ately. The  order  was  quickly  obeyed,  and  in  less  than  two 
hours  the  murderer  was  seated  alone  in  an  elegant  and  lux- 
uriously furnished  apartment,  at  one  of  the  most  fashion- 
able hotels  in  the  very  heart  of  the  gay  metropolis.  What 
a  world  is  this  !  and  what  a  life  is  this  !  where  opposite 
extremes  so  often  meet,  and  where  the  outward  seeming  is 
such  an  unfaithful  transcript  of  tfee  hidden  man  of  the  heart 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  239 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  I  HAD  a  strange  dream  last  night,  Mary.  Methought 
I  was  standing  with  Arthur,  in  the  upper  part  of  an  old, 
dilapidated  building,  in  a  strange,  wild  country,  when  we 
were  startled  by  the  most  frightful  and  piercing  screams, 
long,  clear,  loud  and  fiend-like,  curdling  the  heart-blood 
with  their  terror.  On  looking  up,  we  saw  an  immense 
bird,  black  as  midnight,  circling  in  the  air.  It  wheeled  to 
and  fro,  flapping  its  heavy  wings,  when,  suddenly,  with  one 
downward  swoop  it  caught  a  bright-plumaged  warbler, 
which  was  soaring  upward,  and  uttering  again  that  fearful 
cry,  which  now  seemed  like  a  demon-shout  of  victory,  bore 
its  bleeding  prey  to  a  cleft  in  a  massy  pile  of  rocks,  which 
towered  high  in  majestic  grandeur  before  us.  Sick  and 
faint,  I  turned  away,  cowering  in  dread  as  if  the  spirit  of 
evil  were  ruling  in  the  air ;  when  I  raised  my  head  Arthur 
was  gone.  The  bird  was  again  circling  and  shrieking ;  in- 
stinctively I  felt  that  the  flash  of  its  dark  eye  was  directed 
to  where  I  stood,  and  I  turned  to  escape.  As  I  fled 
through  a  long  gloomy  gallery  I  heard  the  rush  of  its 
wings,  and  gave  myself  up  for  lost ;  in  an  instant  more  it 
was  wheeling  over  my  head,  and  with  the  same  yell  with 
which  it  had  caught  the  poor  bird,  darted  toward  me ;  for 
a  moment  I  seemed  turned  to  stone,  but  as  it  raised  its 
talons,  as  if  about  to  dart  them  in  my  side,  I  stretched  my 
hand,  and,  grasping  it  by  the  neck,  held  it  writhing  like  a 
worm  in  its  agony.  Again  and  again  it  strove  to  turn  and 
bury  its  beak  in  my  arm,  but  my  strength  appeared  super- 


240  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

human,  and  I  succeeded  in  baffling  its  efforts,  until  think- 
ing life  extinct  I  threw  it  from  me.  Ouce  more  it  rose — 
circled  and  shrieked — once  more  I  grasped  it — once  more 
its  beak  was  turned  toward  my  arm,  but  I  bore  a  charmed 
life,  it  had  no  power  to  hurt  me,  and  at  length  I  flung  it 
down  dead,  with  its  large  heavy  wings  drooping  by  its  side, 
its  sable  plumage  ruffled  and  torn,  and  its  tongue,  forked 
like  that  of  a  serpent,  protruding  from  its  enormous  beak. 
I  flung  it  from  me,  and  wondered  that  Arthur  was  not  near 
to  aid  me  in  the  struggle  with  mine  enemy.  Was  it  not 
a  strange  dream,  Mary  ?" 

"  It  was,  dear  Blanche,  but  you  have  grown  fanciful  of 
late,  and  some  wild  Eastern  tale  that  you  have  been  read- 
ing has  held  sway  over  your  imagination  during  the  hours 
of  sleep.  You  were  not  always  wont  to  be  terrified  by 
those  freaks  of  fancy ;  why  now  give  them  even  a  passing 
thought  ?" 

"  I  have  been  reading  no  Eastern  tales,  Mary ;  nothing 
in  the  slightest  manner  connected  with  that  horrid  dream  ; 
but  there  is  a  mountain  load  of  sadness  weighing  on  my 
heart.  The  least  noise  startles  me — the  wind,  as  it  bears 
onward  the  faded  leaves  on  its  unseen  wings,  wails  on  my 
ear  with  the  melancholy  plaintiveness  of  a  funeral  dirge — 
the  very  gleams  of  sunshine,  which  were  once  to  me  the 
types  of  all  things  beautiful  and  joyous,  now  wear  a  sad 
and  mocking  splendo'r.  I  wish  Arthur  was  here ;  when  he 
is  by  my  side  I  feel  safe  from  all  harm ;  why  did  he  leave 
me  when  the  dark  raven  shrieked  over  me  ?  Arthur  ! 
Arthur  !  come  to  me,  mine  own,  come  to  me  once  again." 
And  Blanche  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept. 

"  My  sister — my  own  sister — "  but  the  words  of  conso- 
lation which  Mary  attempted  to  utter  faltered  and  died 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  241 

away  as  she  looked  upon  Blanche,  drooping  like  the  lily- 
bell  when  the  spirit  of  the  storm  trails  his  dark  wing  over 
earth's  loveliest  and  sweetest.  Sitting  down  beside  her 
sister,  and  locking  her  arms  around  her,  and  bowing  her 
head  until  her  cheek  touched  that  of  Blanche,  she  suffered 
their  tears  to  flow  long  and  silently  together. 

It  was  the  middle  of  autumn,  and  the  trees  had  pranked 
themselves  right  gorgeously.  Here  stood  one,  a  veteran 
of  the  forest,  dyed  in  crimson,  as  if  a  warrior's  heart-blood 
had  been  poured  into  the  veining  of  every  leaf — there 
another,  arrayed  as  if  the  divining-rod  had  suddenly  root- 
ed itself  in  a  hoard  of  concealed  treasure,  and  sprung  up 
branched  and  decked  with  the  coveted  gold — some,  brilliant 
as  if  the  regal  purple  of  an  Eastern  monarch  had  been  shred 
to  clothe  them  with  magnificence,  and  others  sombre  as  if 
hooded  and  cowled  in  the  dark  garb  of  a  Carmelite.  But 
all  were  beautiful,  as  the  slanting  rays  of  the  parting  sun- 
light fell  among  their  slightly  quivering  branches,  and  the 
flame-colored  glory,  blended  with  deep  amethyst,  lay  in 
long  lines  in  the  western  heaven,  while  here  and  there  a 
light  pillar  of  misty  brightness  rose  high,  upholding  the 
leaden  pall  which  was  gradually  darkening  the  horizon. 

A  sunset !  An  autumn  sunset !  An  autumn  sunset  in 
the  deep  woods  !  Alone  in  the  temple  of  Nature — roofed 
by  the  vaulted  arch  of  the  eternal  heavens — the  sere  leaves 
strewing  the  long  aisles — the  light  struggling  in  broken 
masses  through  the  leaf-woven  oratory — its  music,  now 
low  and  sweet  as  the  far-off  sound  of  an  angel's  harp-chord, 
now  full  and  loud  as  the  roar  of  many  waters,  woke  by  the 
master-power  of  that  mighty  wind  which  uprooteth  the 
forest  in  its  fury,  and  sighs  wooingly  over  the  blossoms  of 
the  blue  hare-bell  in  its  mountain  home.  Is  there  not  in 

11 


242  BLANCHE     ACHESOW. 

the  soul  of  man  a  secret  sympathy  with  Nature,  that  his 
heart-strings  are  ever  played  upon  by  her  mysterious  in- 
fluence ?  She  looks  upon  him  with  a  bright  and  laughing 
face,  and  he  gives  her  back  smiles  which  are  but  the  re- 
flection of  her  own.  She  pours  out  the  pleasant  sunshine, 
gladdening  and  revivifying  every  green  hamlet  and  quiet 
dell,  and  showering  sparkles  on  every  ripple  of  the  silver 
wave,  and  she  pours  it  too  upon  the  dark  lanes  and  crowd- 
ed ;,lleys  of  the  thronged  city,  lighting  up  many  a  cheek 
long  blanched  by  sorrow,  and  sickness,  and  want,  and  mak- 
ing the  sufferer  to  feel  that  the  sunshine  is  indeed  a  bless- 
ed thing.  It  is  not  until  the  spirit  has  been  worn  and 
crushed,  that  Nature's  joyous  greetings  seem  a  mockery, 
and  it  was  painful  to  see  the  young  and  fair  Blanche 
Acheson,  on  this  glorious  evening,  bowed  in  bitterness  of 
spirit  to  the  very  earth. 

Soon  after  the  night  which  saw  Mick  Cassidy  so  vainly 
pleading  for  his  life,  Conyngham  had  taken  a  hurried  fare- 
well of  Woodvale.  Pleading  a  long-deferred  engagement 
to  spend  a  short  time  with  a  friend  in  a  distant  part  of 
the  state,  with  a  thousand  burning  words  to  Blanche,  and 
exacting  from  her  again  and  again  a  vow  of  unalterable 
fidelity,  he  tore  himself  from  her  side.  He  had  written 
but  once,  and  then  he  spoke  of  the  necessity  of  a  prolong- 
ed absence,  and  of  his  soul's  wiah  to  be  united  to  her  who 
was  dearer  to  him  than  life. 

Edward  Ogilby  and  his  friend  were  also  away.  They 
had  been  passing  the  summer  mouths  in  visiting  many  of 
those  beautiful  places  which  so  justly  excite  the  admiration 
of  travellers  from  the  Old  World,  and  a  letter,  received 
that  day  by  Mr.  Acheson,  put  the  family  in  momentary 
expectation  of  their  arrival 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  243 

While  the  sisters  were  still  sitting  pondering  over  the 
past,  and  vainly  endeavoring  to  lift  the  veil  from  the  fu- 
ture, the  tramp  of  a  horse  was  heard,  nearer  and  nearer — 
"  It  is  corning  up  the  lane,  Mary,  let  us  retire."  Nearer 
and  nearer — across  the  avenue — through  the  gateway — it 
is  behind  them — the  rider  springs  from  the  saddle,  and  in 
another  moment  Blanche  is  folded  in  the  arms  of  him  for 
.  whose  absence  the  warm  tears  so  lately  shed  are  yet  glisten- 
ing on  her  cheek. 

"  Blanche !  mine  own  !  mine  own  !  no  earthly  power 
shall  ever  again  part  us." 

"  You  look  ill,  Arthur — you  are  pale,  and  your  eyes 
have  a  dark  shadow,  as  of  grief  and  watching,  around  them 
—why  is  this  ?" 

"  All  will  be  well  now,  dearest — there  has  been  watch- 
ing in  the  long  hours  that  kept  me  from  you — and  there 
has  been  grief  that  we  were  parted  from  each  other,  but 
't  is  over  now,  I  am  once  more  by  thy  side ;  I  am  the  dove 
returning  to  the  ark,  not  the  raven  flying  away  from  its 
resting-place." 

A  shudder  passed  over  Blanche;  she  thought  of  her 
dream,  and  clung  closer  to  the  side  of  Conyngham.  Mary 
had  left  them  after  the  first  greetings  with  Arthur,  and, 
before  they  entered  the  house,  he  had  drawn  from  Blanche 
the  promise  that  another  month  should  make  her  all  his  own. 

"  We  have  been  expecting  my  nephew  and  his  friend  this 
week  past,"  said  Mr.  Acheson,  a  few  evening  after  Arthur's 
return.  "  They  promised  to  pass  Hallowe'en  with  us,  that 
we  might  talk  over  some  of  the  tricks  still  practised  by 
light-hearted  youngsters  in  our  father-land.  I  shall  be 
sadly  disappointed  if  they  are  not  here,  for  I  like  to  pre- 
serve the  memory  of  old  customs,  when  mirth  and  hospi- 


244  BLANCHE     ACHE8ON. 

tality  make  even  the  poor  and  the  care-worn  to  forget  their 
want  and  wretchedness  for  the  time.  There  is  holy,  time- 
honored  Christmas — what  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  kindli- 
ness and  good-feeling  is  stirred  up  by  the  church-chimes  on 
its  hallowed  morning.  How  the  heart  of  every  member  of 
a  family  glows  with  gratitude  to  God,  and  with  love  to 
each  other,  as  they  return  from  praising  him  in  temples 
dedicated  to  his  service,  whose  arches  have  resounded  with 
anthems  hailing  the  nativity  of  our  Lord.  What  warm 
thanks  ascend  from  the  well-filled  board  to  Him  who  hath 
laden  the  barns  with  plenty,  and  made  the  presses  to  burst 
out  with  new  wine,  and  how  the  charity  which  burns  with- 
in the  breast  makes  us  feel  that  it  is  more  blessed  to  give 
than  to  receive,  as  we  look  on  the  glad  faces  of  the  par- 
takers of  our  bounty.  Here,  there  is  New- Year,  with  its 
interchange  of  kindly  greetings,  and  Christmas,  too,  with 
its  gift-giver  riding  over  the  tops  of  houses,  and  down  the 
chimneys,  to  fill  the  stockings  of  the  little  ones.  Do  you 
remember,  Mary,  the  Christmas  eve  you  lay  watching  for 
Santa-Glaus,  and  saw  your  mother  and  me  stealing  in  and 
depositing  your  presents  ?  I  believe  you  never  looked  out 
for  St.  Nicholas  after  that." 

"  Mr.  Ogilby,"  said  a  servant,  opening  the  door  of  the 
apartment. 

"  Ned,  my  dear  boy,  we  were  just  talking  of  you.  Where 
is  O'Neil  ?" 

"  He  will  be  here  in  a  moment,  dear  uncle,  we  only  ar- 
rived in  town  this  afternoon,  Harry  met  with  an  old 
friend  of  his  at  the  hotel;  on  introducing  me  to  the 
stranger,  I  found  that  his  father  and  you  had  been  very  in- 
timate, and,  relying  on  your  Irish  hospitality,  I  invited 
him  to  spend  Hallowe'en  at  your  house." 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  245 

'  Ogilby  glanced  round  while  lie  was  speaking ;  Mary  was 
already  at  his  side,  with  his  hand  pressed  in  hers ;  she  led 
him  toward  Blanche,  there  was  a  slight,  a  very  slight 
tremor  of  the  voice  as  he  returned  her  gentle  salutation, 
for  an  instant  there  was  a  reeling  of  the  brain,  a  dimness 
of  sight,  it  was  but  an  instant ;  yet  Conyngham's  jealous 
eye  had  detected  those  signs  of  a  passion  wrestling  with 
and  seeking  to  hide  its  agony ;  and,  appearing  not  to  notice 
the  proffered  hand  of  Ogilby,  he  bowed  in  cold  and  stately 
silence.  In  a  few  minutes  they  were  joined  by  O'Neil 
and  his  friend. 

"  Mr.  Fortescue,"  said  Harry,  addressing  Mr.  Acheson. 
"  When  Edward  learned  that  Major  Fortescue  and  your- 
self had  been  friends,  he  was  sure  that  his  son  would  meet 
with  a  welcome  reception." 

"  Bless  me  !  can  it  be  possible  ?  Guy  Fortescue !  The 
major  had  but  one  child,  a  boy  six  years  of  age,  when  I 
saw  him  last — and  now  that  I  look  at  you,  it  seems  as  if 
your  father  stood  before  me,  looking  as  he  did  twenty 
years  ago  ;  bless  me  !  but  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  My  dear," 
addressing  Mrs.  Acheson,  "  you  remember  when  the  45th 
lay  in  Enniskillen,  and  Major  Fortescue  and  his  lady  were 
with  us  almost  daily.  The  major  and  I  had  been  friends 
from  boyhood ;  we  entered  Trinity  together,  graduated  at 
the  same  time,  and,  from  the  time  he  entered  the  army  un- 
til his  death,  were  regular  correspondents." 

"  I  beg  you  will  consider  our  house  your  home  for  a 
month  at  least,  Mr.  Fortescue,  and  I  am  sure  my  daughters 
will  second  the  wish,  whom,  by  the  by,  Mr.  Acheson  has 
not  yet  presented  to  you." 

Mary  greeted  him  warmly,  her  father's  friend,  and 
Harry's  friend,  her  young  heart  sprung  up  to  meet  him  as 


246  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

a  brother,  and  Blanche,  in  a  sweet  tone  of  gentle  kindness, 
welcomed  him  to  their  home. 

On  the  entrance  of  O'Neil,  Conyngham  had  suddenly 
left  his  place  by  the  side  of  Blanche,  and  seated  himself 
at  a  greater  distance  from  the  group.  As  he  rose  to  meet 
Fortescue,  who,  with  Mr.  Acheson,  was  approaching  him, 
his  whole  face  appeared  suffused  with  a  livid  and  unnatural 
hue,  and  Fortescue,  with  a  smothered  exclamation,  and  an 
involuntary  start,  let  fall  the  hand  which  had  been  stretched 
toward  him.  Mr.  Acheson  was  surprised,  but  with  that 
ready  tact  which  is  ever  exerted  to  spare  the  feelings  of 
others,  forbore  to  notice  the  circumstance. 

As  the  evening  wore  away,  Conyngham  recovered  his 
self-possession.  The  host  and  hostess,  with  Edward  Ogil- 
by,  were  wholly  absorbed  in  conversation  with  Fortescue, 
and  O'Neil  challenged  Mary  to  a  game  of  chess.  She  made 
many  a  wrong  move,  but  then  she  was  a  novice,  and  Harry, 
instead  of  watching  his  chess-men  soberly  and  quietly,  as  he 
should  have  done,  was  gazing  in  her  face,  and  "  malicious- 
ly," as  she  said,  "laughing  at  her  awkwardness." 

"  To-morrow  night,"  said  Mr.  Acheson,  as  the  party 
were  separating,  "  to-morrow  night  is  Hallowe'en,  and  ours 
shall  be  a  merry  meeting." 


CHAPTER  YI. 

"  MR.  OGILBY,"  said  Fortescue,  as  they  stood  in  the  hall, 
"  will  you  allow  me  a  few  moments  conversation  with  you 
before  retiring  ?" 

Edward  had  his  misgivings,  and  without  speaking  put  his 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  247 

arm  in  that  of  his  companion  and  left  the  house.  The 
night  was  clear  and  cold,  there  was  no  moon ;  but  the  light 
of  the  ever-burning  stars,  solemn  and  holy  as  shone  the  eyes 
of  the  glorified  Beatrice  on  the  entranced  Florentine,  was 
shining  down  upon  the  earth. 

"  I  make  no  apology,  Mr.  Ogilby,  for  entering  at  once 
upon  a  painful  and  delicate  subject.  My  friend  O'Neil  in- 
formed me  that  Miss  Acheson  was  about  to  become  the 
bride  of  a  Mr.  Conyngham,  a  wealthy  and  accomplished 
Englishman.  You  saw  our  meeting,  and  you  will  not  won- 
der at  its  effect  when  I  tell  you  that  in  the  betrothed  of 
your  cousin,  I  recognized  Francis  Ormond,  one  of  our  own 
countrymen,  a  fugitive  from  justice,  the  perpetrator  of  one 
of  the  blackest  crimes  of  ingratitude  that  ever  branded  its 
shame  on  the  brow  of  man.  Christopher,  or  as  he  was  fa- 
miliarly called,  '  Kit'  Ormond,  was  my  mother's  cousin ; 
disappointed  early  in  life,  he  never  married,  and  seldom 
left  his  estate  at  Navan,  except  for  an  occasional  visit  to 
Dublin,  where  most  of  his  friends  resided.  Passing  one 
day  through  the  Phenix  Park,  he  saw  a  boy  poorly  clad, 
devouring  a  crust  with  a  half  famished  aspect,  and  weep- 
ing bitterly.  Mr.  Ormond,  ever  alive  to  generous  im- 
pulses, moved  by  the  child's  forlorn  appearance,  stopped 
and  accosted  him.  His  tale  was  a  pitiful  one.  He  had  no 
home,  no  parents,  his  mother  had  been  dead  a  year,  and  his 
father  had,  within  the  last  two  weeks,  been  buried  from  a 
wretched  hovel,  where  he  had  lain  ill  for  months.  Since 
he  followed  his  father  to  the  grave,  he  had  supported  him- 
self by  begging  through  the  day,  and  creeping  at  night  into 
a  cellar  with  an  old  woman,  herself  a  beggar,  who  had  last 
evening  told  him  he  must  come  there  no  longer  unless  he 
could  pay  for  his  lodging. 


248  BLANCHE      ACHESON. 

"  Mr.  Ormond  took  the  boy  to  his  own  home,  had  him 
comfortably,  even  handsomely  clad,  and,  as  the  housekeeper 
remarked,  '  he  was  made  to  look  like  the  son  of  a  gentle- 
man.' He  was  really  fine  looking,  and  Frank  Stevens  was 
soon  the  pet  and  constant  companion  of  his  benefactor. 
Soon  after  my  dear  mother's  death,  my  father  was  ordered 
abroad  with  his  regiment,  and  I  was  sent  to  the  house  of 
Mr.  Ormond. 

"  One  day,  while  Frank  and  I  were  playing,  a  beggar 
woman  came  up  to  us  and  asked  for  charity.  She  started 
on  seeing  my  companion,  and,  staring  at  him  with  aston- 
ishment, asked  if  he  were  not  little  Frank  Stevens,  who 
had  lodged  with  her  after  his  father  died.  He  endeavored 
to  shake  her  off,  but  the  woman  angry  on  seeing  he  did  not 
wish  to  recognize  her,  began  to  use  loud  language,  accom- 
panied by  violent  gesticulation.  Mr.  Ormond  coming  for- 
ward, she  immediately  changed  her  manner,  and  courtesy- 
ing  low,  in  a  whining  tone  begged  for  some  relief. 

"  '  Why  were  you  speaking  so  rudely  to  these  boys  ?  I 
have  half  a  mind  not  to  give  you  a  farthing.' 

" '  It  was  only  to  little  Frank,  and  I  was  speaking  quiet- 
ly, yer  honor ;  sure,  if  I  might  be  so  bould,  I'd  jist  ax  ye 
to  bid  him  show  me  the  picthur  of  the  purty  lady  he  us'd 
to  wear  about  his  neck.  Och  but  she  was  an  angel  to  look 
at — let  me  see  it  now,  do,  Frank,  dear. 

"  '  Woman,  here  is  some  mistake,  you  do  not  know  that 
boy  ;  he  has  no  such  picture  as  you  speak  of — have  you, 
Francis  ?' 

"  The  sullen  boy  returned  no  answer,  and  Mr.  Ormond, 
putting  some  money  into  the  hand  of  the  woman,  without 
waiting  to  hear  more  than  '  long  life  to  yer  honor,'  led  us 
both  to  the  house.  On  entering,  he  took  Frank  with  him 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  249 

into  his  library,  and  they  remained  for  a  long  time  together. 
The  result  of  their  conference  was,  that  Frank  showed  the 
miniature  of  his  mother,  which  he  had  contrived  to  keep 
concealed  about  his  person,  and  that  the  faultless  likeness 
proved  to  be  that  of  Mr.  Ormond's  early  love.  Here  was 
a  new  tie,  which  drew  him  closer  to  the  boy,  and  from  that 
day  adopted  him  as  his  own,  and  changed  hLs  name  from 
Stephens  to  that  of  Ormond. 

"  I  must  acknowledge  that  Frank  and  I,  though  play- 
mates, were  never  friends.  He  was  fierce,  vindictive  and 
sullen  to  every  one  but  his  benefactor ;  toward  him  he  be- 
haved in  such  a  fawning  manner,  seeming  to  have  no  will 
but  his,  that  the  crafty  parasite  succeeded  in  blinding  his 
fond  and  partial  friend  to  all  the  defects  in  his  character. 
Years  passed;  Frank  and  I  went  to  college,  he  to  Cam- 
bridge, I  to  Trinity,  and  when  we  saw  each  other  again  he 
had  done  that  which  transformed  the  man  into  the  fiend. 

"  While  in  England,  he  indulged  in  every  species  of  riot 
and  debauchery,  and  the  taverns  were  more  familiar  with 
his  bacchanalian  songs,  than  were  the  halls  of  Alma  Mater 
with  his  recitations  of  the  classics.  He  was  deeply  ia  debt, 
and  under  several  false  pretences,  succeeded  in  obtaining 
large  sums  of  money  from  Mr.  Ormond.  In  one  of  his 
drunken  brawls  he  taunted  a  fellow-collegian  beyond  en- 
durance ;  a  challenge  was  the  consequence  ;  young  Sidney 
was  wounded,  though  not  mortally,  and  Frank  was  expelled. 

"  The  baliffs  were  on  his  track,  ready  to  arrest  him  for 
debt,  but,  with  the  assistance  of  his  chum,  he  effected  his 
escape  and  took  the  packet  at  Holyhead  for  Dublin.  A 
letter  containing  a  full  account  of  his  proceedings  was  still 
lying  open  on  the  library  table  at  Navan,  when  he  entered 
the  house  of  his  only  friend. 

11* 


250  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

"  Mr.  Ormond  received  him  coldly,  and  in  the  excite- 
ment of  the  moment  reproached  him  with  his  want  of  grat- 
itude for  the  kindness  shown  him.  The  young  man  replied 
bitterly,  and  rudely,  and  Mr.  Ormond,  who,  although  the 
kindest-hearted  man  living,  was  unhappily  of  too  hasty  a 
temper,  struck  a  blow  which  was  never  forgiven.  One 
morning  he  was  found  strangled  in  his  bed.  Nothing  could 
be  elicited  at  the  inquest  to  throw  light  on  the  dark  pro- 
ceeding; his  door  was  fastened  on  the  inside,  and  the  mur- 
derer's object  evidently  had  not  been  plunder,  for  a  large 
amount  of  money  lay  untouched  in  the  drawer  of  a  secre- 
taire in  his  bed-room.  Phil  Cassidy,  one  of  the  servants, 
deposed,  that  in  the  gray-dawn  he  had  seen  a  short  man,  in 
the  dress  of  a  Wicklow  peasant,  climbing  over  the  garden- 
wall  into  the  deer-park ;  he  took  him  for  a  poacher,  and 
did  not  speak,  lest  he  should  turn  and  fire  on  him  ;  this  was 
the  only  incident  which  appeared  to  have  any  connection 
with  the  mysterious  affair. 

"  Frank  was  from  home ;  he  had  been  absent  three  or 
four  days,  and  was  immediately  sent  for  ;  his  well-counter- 
feited grief  lulled  the  suspicions  of  all  but  Phil,  who  had 
overheard  the  angry  altercation  between  him  and  the  de- 
ceased ;  and  the  servant  more  than  once  hinted  that  he 
had  a  guess  of  somebody  who  was  concerned  in  the  murder 
of  his  master.  Frank  seemed  to  think  instinctively  that 
Phil  was  watching  his  movements,  and  for  some  frivolous 
cause  dismissed  him  from  his  service.  A  few  days  after 
he  was  found  shot,  not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  cabin  oc- 
cupied by  his  mother  and  only  brother  Mick.  I  was  there 
the  morning  the  body  was  buried,  and  heard  Mick  Cassidy 
swearing,  upon  his  brother's  grave,  to  track  the  murderer. 

"  At  the  summer  fair  a  fight  arose  between  two  opposite 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  251 

factions.  In  the  midst  of  the  melee  Mick  felled  a  man  to 
the  earth,  another  blow  would  have  sent  him  into  eternity. 
Striving  to  stay  the  arm  of  Mick,  as  it  was  about  descend- 
ing, he  muttered — '  Spare  me,  Mick  Cassidy,  I've  that  to 
tell  you'd  give  your  right  hand  to  hear.' 

"  '  Don't  mind  him,  Mick,  sure  you'll  not  let  it  be  said 
that  iver  an  O'Hara  bate  a  Cassidy?'  said  a  servant  of  Or- 
mond's,  who  was  standing  beside  them. 

"  '  Tim  Rogan,  I'm  nearly  dyin' — touch  me  if  you  dare' 
— seeing  the  stick  of  Tim  flourishing  in  his  hand — '  I  tell 
you,  I'm  nearly  dyin'  and  I've  no  more  dread  of  you  nor 
your  masther — hould  me  up,  Mick — I  think  I  can  get  as 
far  as  the  magistrate's,  and  there  I'll  tell  you  who  shot  Phil.' 

"  O'Hara  was  supported  to  the  house  of  the  nearest  jus- 
tice of  the  peace,  where  he  made  his  deposition,  on  oath, 
the  substance  of  which  was  as  follows : 

'•  On  the  day  preceding  Mr.  Ormond's  murder,  he  had 
met  Tim  Rogan  at  a  poteen  house,  where,  after  drinking  a 
couple  of  naggins  of  whiskey,  Tim  told  him  he  knew  of  a 
job  which,  if  nately  done,  would  put  a  hundred  pounds  into 
a  man's  pocket.  O'Hara  swore  secrecy,  and  then  his  com 
panion  disclosed  a  plot  for  taking  the  life  of  Mr.  Ormond. 
The  garden-wall  was  to  be  scaled^  and  a  ladder  used  for 
climbing  fruit  trees  was  to  be  placed  under  one  of  Mr.  Or- 
mond's chamber  windows,  which  was  always  left  partly  open 
for  a  circulation  of  air,  in  the  summer  season;  his  life  was 
to  be  taken  without  any  external  marks  of  violence  being 
left  on  his  person,  and  strangling  was  agreed  upon.  Tim 
said  he  could  not  earn  the  money,  as  he  must  be  away  that 
night  to  Mr.  Frank,  who  had  planned  it  all,  and  as  he  knew 
O'Hara  had  a  stout  heart,  and  withal  an  old  grudge  at  the 
man,  he  thought  it  better  to  tell  him  than  any  other. 


252  BLANCHE     ACHE8ON. 

"  The  deed  was  done,  and  he  received  from  Rogan  the 
promised  reward.  The  only  man  of  whom  he  was  afraid 
was  Phil  Cassidy ;  he  knew  Phil  had  seen  him,  and  he  was 
still  in  dread  of  being  recognized,  when  one  morning  he 
heard  Cassidy  had  been  found  shot,  and  Rogan  confessed 
to  him  that  he  had  done  it,  for  that  his  master  said  neither 
of  them  were  safe  while  Phil  was  living. 

"  Here  was  a  startling  disclosure,  sworn  to  by  a  man  who 
had  not  many  hours  to  live,  and  after  some  delay  a  warrant 
was  issued  for  the  arrest  of  Mr.  Francis  Ormond,  and  his 
servant  Timothy  Rogan.  The  officers  found  only  Tim  at 
the  house,  who,  when  taken  into  custody,  protested  his  in- 
nocence, and  persisted  in  his  protestations  till  confronted 
with  the  dying  O'Hara,  when  his  courage  failed,  and  ho 
confessed  the  whole  diabolical  transaction.  He  said  he 
had  given  his  master  an  account  of  what  passed  at  the  fair, 
but  denied  all  knowledge  of  his  movements. 

"  In  the  meantime,  Frank  had  posted  to  Dublin ;  on  the 
next  morning  drawn  a  large  sum  which  had  been  deposited 
in  the  Bank  of  Ireland,  and  then  disguising  himself, 
awaited  the  event.  The  papers  were  filled  with  details  of 
the  atrocious  deed,  and  a  large  reward  was  offered  to  any 
one  who  would  deliver  the  fugitive  up  to  justice.  The 
search  was  useless ;  once,  and  but  once,  was  Frank  recog- 
nized, and  that  was  by  myself.  As  I  descended  the  side  of 
a  vessel,  on  board  of  which  I  had  just  taken  leave  of  a 
friend,  I  saw  a  man  standing  alone,  leaning  against  a  mast, 
watching  the  boat  which  was  to  convey  me  to  the  shore  ; 
there  was  something  about  him,  although  he  evidently  wore 
a  disguise,  which  made  me  look  again,  when  he  turned  ab- 
ruptly from  the  spot — that  man  was  Frank  Ormond,  and 
the  vessel  was  bound  for  America. 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  253 

"  O'Hara  died  of  his  wounds,  Rogan  was  hung"for  the 
murder  of  Phil  Cassidy,  Mick  embarked  for  this  country, 
and  when  I  left  home  the  whole  affair  was  gradually  fading 
from  the  minds  of  the  people.  I  have  endeavored  to  be 
as  brief  as  possible  in  my  narration  of  these  unhappy 
events,  and  I  leave  it  with  you  to  break  the  matter  to  your 
uncle's  family.  Good  night,  and  God  bless  you." 

Ogilby  retired  to  his  room,  but  not  to  rest.  All  night 
long  he  paced  the  floor ;  his  anxiety  was  for  Blanche,  he 
knew  she  was  devotedly  attached  to  the  wretched  man  whose 
soul  was  so  darkened  with  crime,  yet  he  could  not  see  his 
pure  and  stainless  cousin's  destiny  linked  with  that  of  a 
cold-blooded  murderer.  There  was  no  selfishness  mingled 
with  his  feelings,  there  was  no  thought  that  the  sweet  star 
of  his  idolatry  might,  yet  be  his  own,  he  could  not  build 
his  bower  of  happiness  on  the  ruin  of  another's  hope. 
No  !  Blanche — the  worshipped  of  years — the  haunter  of 
his  boyhood's,  yea,  of  his  manhood's  visions — was  lost  to 
him  forever ;  and  often  during  that  wretched  night  of 
mental  agony  did  the  thought  cross  his  mind,  that  it  were 
better  to  conceal  all,  and  leave  her  to  her  dream  of  bliss. 


CHAPTBE  VII. 

GLAD  to  behold  the  first  faint  glimmer  of  the  coming 
day,  Edward  wandered  from  the  house,  still  uncertain  as 
to  what  course  he  should  pursue.  He  crossed  the  garden, 
passed  through  a  wicket  into  an  adjoining  wood,  and  walk- 


254  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

ed  on  abstractedly  until  his  attention  was  arrested  by  the 
sound  of  voices  behind  a  stone  wall  which  separated  his 
uncle's  domain  from  the  public  avenue. 

"  I  knew  of  old  that  you  were  an  early  riser,  Mr.  For- 
tescue, and  I  have  watched  your  coming  forth,  that  I  might 
throw  myself  upon  your  mercy,  and  beg  that,  in  this  land, 
the  remembrance  of  the  past  may  be  forgotten.  My  life 
is  bound  up  in  that  of  the  fair  being  whom  you  last  even- 
ing found  seated  by  my  side ;  it  is  for  her  that  I  plead,  not 
for  myself.  I  could  dare  and  defy  you,  but  Blanche  Ach- 
eson  must  not  be  immolated  for  deeds  of  which,  after  all, 
there  is  no  positive  evidence." 

"  There  was  wanting  no  link  in  the  chain  of  circum- 
stantial evidence,  and  the  dying  deposition  of  the  man  bribed 
by  your  servant,  and  the  solemn  confession  of  that  servant 
himself,  before  suffering  the  penalty  of  the  law  for  an- 
other murder  to  which  you  were  instrumental,  have  left  no 
doubt  that  you  are  polluted  with  crimes  of  the  blackest 
dye.  Chance  brought  me  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Acheson, 
and  to  his  nephew  I  last  night  revealed  your  secret." 

"  To  Edward  Ogilby  !  Curse  him — curse  him — through 
him  has  all  this  been  done — through  him  and  through  his 
friend  you  found  your  way  here — and  now  he  thinks  to 
win  the  prize  for  which  I  have  so  long  contended — curse 
him — and  curse  you  too,  Guy  Fortescue,  your  babbling 
tongue  has  told  its  last  tale,"  and  he  plunged  a  short  dirk 
into  the  breast  of  Fortescue. 

"  Villain  !"  shouted  a  voice,  as  Guy  fell  backward.  "  vil- 
lain !  your  life  shall  pay  for  this  !"  and  Ogilby  leaped  the 
wall — "  base-hearted,  treacherous  villain  !"  again  he  shout- 
ed, as  he  stood  face  to  face  confronted  with  Conyngham. 
Fearful  was  it  to  behold  these  two  young  men  as  they 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  255 

stood,  with  knitted  brows,  glaring  on  each  other ;  Conyng- 
ham  with  the  deadly  weapon  still  in  his  grasp,  and  Ogilby 
with  his  fingers  clenched  until  the  blood  nearly  oozed  from 
his  palms. 

"  Aye,  curse  you  again,  Edward  Ogilby,"  said  the  infu- 
riated man,  who  had  now  lost  all  self-possession,  "  curse 
you  again,"  and  he  made  a  pass  at  his  adversary.  Ogilby 
warded  off  the  blow,  and  succeeded  in  wrenching  the 
weapon  from  his  foe — they  grappled — Conyngham's  eyes 
seemed  starting  from  their  sockets — his  nostrils  were  di- 
lated— his  face  was  suddenly  overspread  with  a  dark  pur- 
ple hue — he  staggered — reeled — and  fell,  with  the  blood 
gushing  from  his  mouth.  All  this  had  passed  with  the 
rapidity  of  thought,  and  before  any  of  the  inmates  of  Mr. 
Acheson's  house  were  yet  abroad.  Edward  hurried  from 
the  spot,  and  found  his  uncle  just  coming  down  the  stairs  ; 
beckoning  to  him  to  remain  silent,  he  left  the  house  and 
motioned  him  to  follow ;  then  in  a  rapid  manner  ran  over 
the  events  of  the  morning,  and  the  disclosures  of  Fortes- 
cue  the  preceding  night.  Before  Mr.  Acheson  had  time 
for  question  or  reply  they  were  at  the  fatal  place.  For- 
tescue  had  revived,  and  was  sitting  leaning  against  the 
wall,  but  Conyngham  still  lay  insensible,  while  a  man  in 
the  garb  of  a  common  laborer  was  bending  over  him,  try- 
ing to  wipe  away  the  blood  with  which  his  face  and  neck 
were  disfigured. 

"  Good  heaven,  what  a  sight !  Mr.  Fortescue,  you  must 
be  conveyed  to  the  house  immediately;  I  trust  your 
wound  is  a  slight  one  ;  but  for  this  villain,  who  has  ruined 
forever  the  peace  of  my  gentle  and  innocent  child,  he  must 
be  taken  from  hence — my  home  shall  never  more  be  pol- 
luted by  his  presence." 


256  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

"Blanche — mine  own — "muttered  the  wretched  man 
as  Mr.  Acheson's  words  restored  him  to  consciousness. 

"  Speak  not  of  Blanche,  Arthur  Conyngham,  take  not 
her  name  in  your  foul  lips ;  merciful  has  been  her  escape  ; 
I  thank  my  God  she  is  not  your  wedded  wife,"  said  the 
heart-stricken  father,  as  he  turned  away  to  procure  assist- 
ance. 

"  Conyngham — Conyngham — :i  musingly  repeated  the 
man,  who  was  still  leaning  over  him,  "  that  was  the  name 
of  the  gentleman  Mick  Cassidy  went  to  meet  by  the  river 
side.  He  had  another  name,  too,  Osborne,  or  Ormond,  or 
something  like  that — poor  Mick,  he  had  sad  misgivings 
the  night  he  left  me,  and,  sure  enough,  I  never  saw  him 
again." 

Conyngham  groaned  aloud,  and  Ogilby,  who  had  inter- 
changed glances  with  Fortescue,  begged  the  man  to  desist 
from  speaking. 

Mr.  Acheson  soon  returned ;  he  had  broken  the  matter 
as  gently  as  possible  to  his  wife  and  Mary,  and  left  to  the 
former  the  task  of  telling  the  tale  to  Blanche. 

The  dirk  of  Conyngham  had  missed  its  aim,  and  the 
wound  of  Fortescue,  although  it  bled  profusely,  was  but 
slight.  The  wretched  Arthur  had  broken  a  blood-vessel ! 
he  was  placed  in  a  carriage,  and,  accompanied  by  O'Neil, 
slowly  conveyed  to  his  lodgings  in  the  city. 

During  the  whole  of  that  melancholy  day,  Blanche  but 
awoke  from  one  swoon  to  fall  into  another.  Toward  even- 
ing she  appeared  to  recover,  and  became  quite  calm  ;  she 
even  talked  of  indifferent  matters,  and  once  alluded  to 
her  father's  intention  that  night  to  have  a  merry  Hallow- 
e'en. Her  parents  were  deceived  by  her  manner,  and 
thought  that  strength  for  the  trial  had  been  given  their 


BLANCHE     ACHESON-.  257 

darling  child,  but  Edward,  with  the  quick  and  watchful 
eye  of  love,  detected  something  sad  and  strangely  fearful 
under  her  assumed  composure,  and  with  the  determination 
to  watch  her  narrowly,  retired  for  the  night.  It  was  long 
past  midnight  before  the  light  in  her  room  was  extin- 
guished, and  not  until  it  was,  did  her  cousin,  harassed  and 
dispirited,  throw  himself  upon  his  couch. 

Late  the  next  morning  the  sad  family  assembled  in  the 
breakfast-room — Blanche  was  absent. 

"  Mary,  love,"  said  Mrs.  Acheson,  "  go  and  bring  your 
sister  to  us.  My  poor  sufferer  !  may  He  who  tempereth 
the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb  be  with  you  in  this  hour  of 
trial !" 

"  He  will  be  with  her,  my  dear  aunt.  Oh,  Blanche ! 
my  angel-cousin  !  my  peerless  Blanche  !  what  a  harsh  fate 
is  thine  !"  and  Edward  Ogilby  bent  his  head  and  suffered 
the  tears  which  could  no  longer  be  hidden  to  flow  unre- 
strainedly. Mr.  Acheson  could  not  speak,  h»  stood  with 
his  arms  folded,  inwardly  mourning  over  the  sorrow  which 
had  fallen  on  his  house. 

"  She  is  not  there  !  father  !  mother  !  she  is  not  there  !" 
exclaimed  Mary,  pale  with  terror,  rushing  into  the  room. 
All  were  horror-struck — it  was  too  true — she  was  gone ! 
Every  place  was  searched,  but  in  vain.  Could  it  be  that 
Blanche,  the  pure,  the  good,  could  it  be  that  she  had 
rushed  unbidden  into  the  presence  of  her  Maker  ?  There 
were  horrible  surmisings  as  the  wretched  father  explored 
the  river's  bank,  looking  in  vain  for  some  token  of  his  lost 
child.  It  was  noon,  and  all  search  had  proved  fruitless. 
O'Neil  had  not  returned — whether  Conyngham  were  living 
or  not  was  unknown  to  them — and  in  this  new  cause  of  grief 
his  existence  was  almost  forgotten. 


258  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

"  She  is  gone — Heaven  only  knows  where — I  thought 
last  night  that  calmness  of  manner  was  unnatural — I  then 
feared  for  her  life,  now  my  sorrow  is  increased  ten-fold,  I 
fear  for  her  reason,"  said  Ogilby,  as  he  threw  himself  in  a 
seat  beside  Fortescue. 

"  I  have  thought  of  one  place  where  your  cousin  might 
be  found,  but  have  forborne  to  mention  it,  lest  it  might 
prove  only  a  false  hope." 

"Where?  where?  for  Heaven's  sake,  tell  me!  I  do 
not  think  her  dead,  and  yet  I  cannot  imagine  where  she 
has  concealed  herself." 

"  Was  she  not  aware  that  Ormond  was  yesterday  con- 
veyed to  the  city  ?" 

"  She  was — but  you  forget — she  left  here  last  night — 
after  midnight — there  was  no  conveyance — in  the  cold 
dark  night  to  walk  six  miles — and  yet  such  gentle  natures 
as  hers,  when  roused,  do  more,  dare  more,  than  others — it 
is  impossible  !  still  it  is  our  last  hope.  I  will  instantly  to 
town — do  not  tell  my  uncle  of  this  surmise  until  I  have 
ascertained  its  certainty." 

In  a  few  moments  Edward  Ogilby  was  speeding  on 
horseback  to  the  city. 


CHAPTER  Yin. 

IT  was  a  cold  raw  morning,  the  day  had  scarcely  dawn- 
ed, when  a  female  wrapped  in  a  large  cloak,  and  wearing 
a  deep  straw  bonnet,  with  a  thick  veil  of  green  gauze,  pre- 
sented herself  at  the  door  of  an  hotel  and  asked  permis- 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  259 

eion  to  see  Mr.  Conyngham.  There  had  been  a  heavy 
drizzling  rain,  the  pavement  was  wet  and  muddy,  and  the 
woman's  garments  were  saturated  with  moisture.  The 
waiter  eyed  her  keenly;  her  voice  was  evidently  disguised, 
but  there  was  that  in  her  manner  which  kept  the  man  from 
treating  her  with  rudeness,  and  he  civilly  denied  her  re- 
quest. 

"  You  cannot  see  him,  ma'am,  he  has  been  very  ill  all 
night,  and  the  physicians  have  forbidden  any  one  entering 
the  room  but  the  nurse." 

"  Very  ill  all  night !  even  now  perhaps  dying  !  for  the 
sake  of  mercy  take  me  to  him  !" 

"  I  dare  not,  the  doctor's  orders  were  positive,  and  I 
might  lose  my  place  by  being  too  obliging ;  however,  as 
you  are  cold  and  wet,  you  had  better  wait  here  till  the  fire 
is  kindled  in  the  hall,  and  then  I  will  carry  a  message  up 
for  you ;"  so  saying,  the  man  left  her,  muttering  something 
about  unfortunate  creatures  running  after  sick  gentlemen. 

Blanche  was  alone — the  timid,  shrinking  Blanche,  about 
whom  the  arms  of  love  had  ever  been  folded,  to  shield  her 
from  the  storm,  as  close  the  guardian  leaves  around  the 
flower  of  the  Celandine.  She  who  started  at  every  noise, 
and  trembled  at  every  shadow,  had,  in  the  dark  night, 
without  moon  or  stars  to  glimmer  on  her  pathway, 
with  the  rain  beating  on  her  fragile  form,  traversed  un- 
harmed six  dreary  miles.  Surely  her  mother's  prayer  had 
been  answered,  and  He  who  tempereth  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb  had  walked  with  her  in  the  darkness.  Stand- 
ing in  the  hall,  she  looked  anxiously  round  to  see  if  any 
one  was  observing  her,  and  finding  herself  still  alone,  she 
rapidly  ascended  the  stairs.  She  had  heard  Conyngham 
mention  the  number  of  his  room  while  giving  directions  to 


260  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

a  servant,  and  sure  that  if  once  at  the  door  she  would  gain 
admittance,  hurried  through  the  passage.  A  woman  was 
stealing  softly  out  of  an  apartment — Blanche  passed  her 
— the  door  was  ajar — it  was  his — she  passed  the  thresh  - 
hold — there  was  a  dull,  heavy  fall  on  the  floor — she  had 
fainted.  The  noise  brought  back  the  nurse,  who  was  as- 
tonished at  finding  the  strange  female  lying  senseless  in 
the  sick  man's  room.  Untying  the  strings  of  the  bonnet, 
and  putting  aside  the  veil  which  was  still  folded  over  the 
face,  the  good  woman  gave  utterance  to  her  surprise. 

"  Goodness  me  !  what  a  beautiful  creature  !  Why  she 
looks  like  a  wax-doll,  only  she  han't  got  no  color  in  her 
cheeks — don't  be  frightened,  sir,  it's  only  a  young  woman 
what's  made  a  mistake,  and  got  into  the  wrong  chamber — 
where's  my  Sal  Wolatil  ? — she'll  come  to  in  a  minute,  I 
reckon — massy  me !  how  cold  her  hands  keep — if  I  only 
had  some  aromatic  winegar." 

The  back  of  the  nurse  was  turned  to  the  bed  on  which 
Conyngham  was  lying ;  rising  noiselessly,  he  wrapped  his 
dressing-gown  about  him,  and  moved  toward  her  ;  the  light 
from  a  shaded  lamp  fell  on  the  face  of  the  person  whose 
temples  she  was  chafing ;  still,  cold,  and  fair  as  the  statue 
of  Parian  marble  which  realizes  the  sculptor's  dream  of 
ideal  beauty,  lay  the  unhappy  girl. 

"  Merciful  Heaven !  could  not  this  have  been  spared 
me  ?  Oh,  Blanche !  Blanche  !  she  hears  me  not — she  is 
dead !" 

"  Goodness  me,  sir !  you  shouldn't  a  got  up  ;  what  if 
the  doctor  should  come  in  now — why,  I  didn't  think  you 
was  strong  enough  hardly  to  raise  your  little  finger,  let 
alone  to  come  out  here — do  let  me  help  you  back,  or  set 
down  in  the  easy  cheer."  Her  words  were  unheeded. 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  261 

"  Blanche — Blanche,"  again  groaned  Conyngham,  as  he 
threw  himself  on  the  floor  by  her  side.  Strange  and 
mighty  is  the  power  of  a  voice  beloved !  Through  the 
thickly-gathering  clouds,  and  the  dim  and  awful  uncon- 
sciousness of  approaching  dissolution,  it  can  rouse  the  dull 
and  torpid  sense,  and  stay  the  fleeting  spirit  on  the  con- 
fines of  the  tomb.  The  sufierer  slowly  raised  the  veined 
lids,  gazed  upon  Arthur  long  and  earnestly,  and  again  re- 
lapsed into  insensibility. 

"  Goodness  me !  I  must  call  the  housekeeper,  I  can't 
stay  here  all  alone  and  she  a  dyin'." 

"  Call  no  one,  woman — Blanche — my  betrothed — she 
yet  lives !" 

"  I  have  had  another  horrid  dream  ! — they  told  me, 
Arthur,  that  you — but  I  did  not  believe  them — I  knew  it 
was  not  so — " 

"  Leave  us,  nurse,  let  no  one  enter  the  room,  I  will  ring 
when  I  wish  your  return." 

"  La  massy,  you  'm  too  weak,  sir,  and  the  young  lady 
an't  half  got  over  her  faintin'  spell." 

"  Leave  us — come  not  until  you  hear  the  bell." 

The  nurse  very  unwillingly  left  the  room.  Being  bless- 
ed with  a  double  portion  of  the  curiosity  attributed  to  her 
sex,  and  that  curiosity  being  now  raised  to  the  highest 
pitch  by  what  she  had  seen  and  heard,  she  endeavored  to 
gratify  it  by  peeping  through  the  key-hole,  and  placing 
her  ear  against  the  door ;  foiled,  however,  in  these  laudable 
and  praiseworthy  attempts,  by  the  low  tone  of  the  speak- 
ers, she  made  her  way  to  the  housekeeper's  apartment, 
there  to  indulge  in  conjectures,  wanting  in  little  save  that 
charity  which  thinketh  no  evil. 

The  temporary  delirium  which  had  hitherto  sustained 


262  BLANCHE     ACHE6ON. 

Blanche  was  fast  passing  away,  and  as  the  consciousness  of 
her  situation  dawned  upon  her,  she  shrunk  from  the  gaze 
of  Conyngham  and  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears.  He  read 
her  thoughts,  and  soothed  her  with  that  voice  which, 
though  harsh  and  imperious  to  others,  was  ever  low  and 
soft  as  that  of  a  gentle  woman  when  addressing  her. 

"  Bless  you,  mine  own  sweet  love  ;  I  dared  not  hope  to 
see  you  at  my  side — bless  you,  dearest.  I  have  been  guilty, 
Blanche — shudder  not  thus — your  purity  was  winning  me 
back  to  peace.  I  was  unworthy  of  you,  and  now  I  must 
lose  you  forever — 't  is  bitter,  bitter,  and  yet,  with  my  last 
gaze  lingering  on  your  beloved  face,  even  the  bitterness 
of  death  will  be  forgotten." 

"  Speak  not  thus,  Arthur — have  I  not  braved  all  ?  am 
not  I,  your  betrothed  wife,  near  you  ?  and  can  I  bear  to 
see  your  eyes  closed  forever — never  to  look  in  mine  again 
— and  your  lips  sealed  with  the  dark  seal  of  eternal  silence, 
never  to  speak  my  name  ?  Oh,  God  !  Arthur !  Arthur  ! 
you  cannot  die .<"' 

A  long  and  agonizing  silence  succeeded  this  burst  of 
passionate  emotion,  interrupted  only  by  the  low,  half- 
stifled  sobs  of  Blanche,  and  the  deep  groans  of  Conyng- 
ham, as  he  felt  that  words  were  powerless  at  such  a  time 
as  this.  They  were  roused  from  this  stupor  of  grief  by  a 
noise  at  the  door,  and  the  voice  of  the  nurse  was  heard. 

"  He  told  me  I  mustn't  come  in  till  I  heard  the  bell 
ring,  and  like  as  not  they  'in  both  dead  by  this  time,  for  he 
looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  ghost,  and  the  young  lady 
was  jest  as  white  as  a  sheet  when  I  seed  her,  and  he  was 
so  contrary  he  wouldn't  even  set  down  on  a  cheer." 

"  You  had  better  open  the  door ;  they  have  not  heard 
us  knocking." 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  263 

"  Yes,  I  guess  it  would  be  best.  Mr.  Conyngham,  here's 
a  gentleman  what's  been  waitin'  an  hour  to  see  you." 

"  Let  him  come  in ;  nurse,  leave  us,"  said  Conyngham, 
feebly,  as  Edward  Ogilby  entered  the  room. 

"  I  have  come  into  your  presence  unasked,  Mr.  Conyng- 
ham ;  anxiety  for  my  cousin  has  made  me  an  intruder,  an 
unwelcome  one  at  any  time,  doubly  so  after  the  events  of 
yesterday." 

Arthur  attempted  to  stretch  forth  his  hand ;  surprised 
and  moved,  Edward  took  it  and  pressed  it  kindly  in  his 
own. 

Blanche  sat,  or  rather  crouched,  on  a  low  stool  at  Ar- 
thur's side;  her  fair  hair  hung  in  heavy,  damp  masses 
round  her  face  and  neck.  She  took  no  notice  of  her  cousin, 
her  eyes  never  once  moved  from  Conyngham's  face;  she 
trembled  lest  she  might  lose  one  glance,  which  might  be 
the  last,  at  the  same  time  that  she  was  inwardly  persuad- 
ing herself  death  could  not  cloud  the  lustre  of  those  beloved 
eyes. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come,  Mr.  Ogilby ;  until  yester- 
day, the  madness  of  my  jealousy  would  not  let  me  see  the 
nobleness  of  your  character.  My  life, — the  life  of  a  rival, 
— was  in  your  hands,  and  you  generously  spared  it,  after 
having  been  treated  with  hatred  and  scorn.  I  am  glad  you 
are  here.  To  you  I  commit  a  treasure,  dear  to  me  as  my 
own  soul ;  although  the  lightest  look  of  Blanche  is  dearer 
to  your  heart  than  to  the  gloating  miser  could  be  the  ran- 
som of  an  earl,  yet  I  have  no  fear  that  you  will  torture 
your  cousin  by  seeking  to  win  her  love — another  might, 
but  you,  I've  marked  you  well,  and  know  you  for  the  soul 
of  honor." 

While  Conyngham  was  speaking,  he  had  been  gradually 


264  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

sinking  lower  and  lower  in  his  seat ;  Ogilby  attempted  to 
raise  him.  "  I  cursed  you  once,  may  God  forgive  me,  and 
pour  his  blessing  on  you.  Blanche,  come  nearer,  let  mo 
feel  your  breath  upon  my  cheek — closer,  closer,  love — 
here  to  my  heart."  There  was  a  pause  of  a  moment,  dur- 
ing which  Conyngham  remained  with  his  eyes  closed,  hold- 
ing Blanche  strained  to  his  bosom.  Suddenly  a  bright 
flush  suffused  his  cheek ;  it  was  instantly  succeeded  by  a 
deadly  palor ;  he  unclosed  his  eyes,  and  fixed  them  fondly 
on  her  who  in  his  last  extremity  had  not  deserted  him ;  his 
arms  relaxed  their  hold  —  another  look,  a  shriek  from 
Blanche,  and  all  was  over. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  her  cousin  could  persuade  her 
to  leave  the  body,  and  when  at  last  she  consented,  it  was 
with  the  same  calm,  composed  manner  which  had  before 
startled  him. 

Leaving  O'Neil,  who  had  called  at  the  hotel  to  make 
the  necessary  arrangements  for  the  burial  of  the  deceased, 
he  conveyed  Blanche  to  her  home.  Briefly  explaining  to 
the  family  where  he  had  found  her,  and  the  circumstance 
of  Conyngham's  death,  he  begged  them  no  longer  to  be 
deceived  by  her  calmness,  but  to  watch  every  movement ; 
for  himself,  he  must  return  to  O'Neil  and  remain  with  him 
until  after  the  funeral. 

The  stranger's  funeral !  Who  has  not  at  one  time  or 
other  seen  a  hearse,  attended  by  a  solitary  carriage,  or  by 
a  few  followers,  not  one  of  whom  wore  any  outward  token 
of  mourning.  On  it  went,  through  streets  whose  living 
tide  was  not  arrested  by  its  passing — on  it  went,  and  the 
gay  crowd  thought  not  of  the  blasted  hopes,  the  corroding 
care,  the  craving  for  human  sympathy  which  had  gnawed 
into  the  heart  of  the  lonely  man — on  it  went,  and  the  man 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  265 

of  business,  mentally  summing  up  his  balance  sheet,  hur- 
ried carelessly  by,  and  the  votaries  of  fashion,  habited  in 
the  choicest  products  of  the  loom,  forgot  that  the  pall  and 
the  shroud  would  yet  be  their  only  covering — on  it  went, 
unheeded  save  by  some  lone  wayfarer  who  was  far  from 
his  own  friends,  and  his  own  home,  or  who  had  one  dear 
as  his  life-blood  sojourning  in  distant  lands;  he  would 
pause  and  turn  aside  to  hide  the  tear,  the  only  one  which 
fell  at  the  stranger's  funeral ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

BLANCHE  faded  daily — there  was  ever  the  same  calm, 
mild  look,  the  same  sweet  tone  of  gentleness,  but  it  was 
hourly  growing  feebler.  Edward  was  continually  near 
her,  and  if  for  a  moment  he  left  her  side,  she  became  rest- 
less and  uneasy  until  his  return.  At  length  a  change 
came  over  her ;  she  would  watch  every  opportunity,  and 
endeavor  to  steal  away  unperceived.  Her  cousin  feared 
that  she  might  attempt  returning  to  the  city,  with  the  hope 
of  finding  the  grave  of  Conyngham,  and  his  care  over  her 
was  unceasing,  but  at  last  she  contrived  to  elude  even  his 
loving  vigilance. 

The  family  were  again  thrown  into  a  state  of  the  most 
harrowing  anxiety.  Edward  endeavored  to  soothe  his 
relatives,  but  without  avail ;  the  search  had  continued  for 
hours,  when  Harry  and  the  wretched  Edward  again  set 
out,  the  former  taking  the  highway,  and  the  latter  striking 
into  the  woods.  In  one  of  their  summer  rambles,  Mary 

12 


266  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

had  pointed  out  to  him  a  spot  which  had  been  a  favorite 
har.nt  of  her  sister's,  and  where  Conyngham  and  Blanche 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  sitting  together  for  hours  ;  to  this 
spot  he  now  bent  his  weary  steps.  It  was  one  of  those 
bright,  warm  days  of  sunshine  which  sometimes  burst  upon 
us  at  the  close  of  autumn,  smiling  as  if  summer  had  re- 
turaed  to  take  a  last  farewell,  and  lovingly  look  down  upon 
her  old  haunts  where  winter  is  so  soon  to  leave  his  deso- 
lating foot-marks. 

In  a  nook,  sheltered  by  a  projecting  rock,  and  hiding 
in  its  bosom  a  spot  of  soft  verdure,  near  which  oozed  a 
small  stream  whose  low  tricklings  fell  dreamily  on  the  ear, 
reclined  Blanche  Acheson.  A  sunbeam  rested  on  her 
face,  lighting  up  the  snowy  brow  with  all  the  glory  of 
seraphic  beauty — one  hand  supported  her  head,  the  other, 
on  the  slender  finger  of  which  gleamed  a  turquoise,  a  gift 
from  Arthur,  was  pressed  to  her  heart,  and  Edward  well 
knew  that  under  it  lay  the  jewelled  likeness  of  him  for 
whom  her  love  had  been  stronger  than  death.  He  stooped 
down — she  was  cold  as  monumental  marble.  He  called 
her  name  in  tones  of  the  deepest  agony — she  heeded  not 
— she  heard  not — he  was  alone  with  the  dead  !  and,  for  the 
first  time,  his  arms  enfolded  the  form,  and  his  lips  were 
pressed  to  the  cheek  of  his  long-adored  cousin. 

"  I  have  fulfilled  my  trust,  Arthur  Conyngham,  I  spoke 
not  of  my  love  to  thy  betrothed.  I  pained  not  the  ears  of 
thy  affianced  with  my  words  of  passion,  but  the  bride  of 
death  can  wear  my  kisses  on  her  cheek,  my  tears  upon  her 
brow,  without  a  stain  reflecting  on  my  honor.  Blanche  ! 
Blanche !  would  to  God  my  life  had  saved  thine  own  !" 

Raising  the  inanimate  form,  and  bearing  it  with  the 
fond  gentleness  with  which  a  guardian  spirit  bears  a  saint 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  267 

to  Paradise,  Edward  Ogilby  retraced  with  solemn  step 
his  way  to  the  house.  He  was  met  by  Mrs.  Acheson  and 
Mary,  who  were  waiting,  in  a  state  bordering  on  distrac- 
tion, the  return  of  those  who  had  gone  to  seek  the  lost. 

"  Mother,  she  has  fainted.  Edward  is  carrying  her  in 
his  arms." 

"  My  poor  sufferer  !  may  God  pity  her  !  Heaven  bless 
you,  my  dear  nephew,  for  your  kindness  to  my  child." 

Edward  spake  not ;  Blanche's  head  lay  on  his  shoulder, 
and  his  bloodless  cheek  was  pressed  close  to  hers.  Mrs. 
Acheson  and  Mary  were  awe-struck,  and  durst  not  question 
him.  They  reached  the  house,  he  passed  onward  to  his 
cousin's  chamber,  and  laid  the  body  on  a  couch ;  not  a 
word  had  yet  been  spoken ;  the  mother  and  sister  were 
bewildered  with  terror. 

"  Look  at  her,  aunt — look  at  her,  Mary — to-day  she  was 
to  have  been  wedded,  and  Arthur  Conynghani  has  claimed 
his  bride."  It  was  indeed  the  day  which  had  been  fixed 
upon  for  the  marriage  of  Blanche,  and  there  was  mourning, 
and  sorrow  in  the  house  which  should  have  echoed  with 
the  tones  of  love  and  joy. 

Ogilby  left  the  house,  and  after  wandering  all  day  re- 
turned. His  appearance  was  haggard  in  the  extreme.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  sorrows  of  twenty  years  had  within  the 
last  few  weeks  stricken  his  frame.  He  sat  most  of  the  night 
alone  by  his  cousin's  bier,  and  it  was  only  through  repeated 
persuasions  that  his  uncle  could  prevail  on  him  to  retire. 
The  morning  found  him  with  a  burning  fever,  delirious, 
raving  incessantly  of  Conynghani  and  Blanche.  At  times 
he  would  fancy  Arthur  dead,  and  his  cousin  about  to  be- 
come his  bride,  then  all  the  love  which  had  been  hiddcnly 
preying  on  his  heart  was  poured  forth  in  a  lavish  profusion 


268  BLANCHE      ACHESON. 

of  the  fondest  and  most  endearing  epithets.  Again  he 
would  see  Conyngham  claiming  her  hand  at  the  altar,  and 
bearing  her  from  his  presence,  and  then  the  most  frantic 
words,  accompanied  by  groans  which  agonized  the  soul,  fell 
on  the  ears  of  his  friends. 

The  body  of  Blanche  was  laid  in  its  narrow  home,  in 
the  cold,  damp  earth,  but  Edward  knew  it  not.  For  two 
weeks  his  disorder  baffled  the  skill  of  the  physicians.  As 
his  reason  slowly  returned,  all  that  had  occurred  passed  be- 
fore him,  and  he  knew  that  he  should  never  look  upon  his 
cousin's  face  again ! 

Supported  by  O'Neil  and  Fortescue,  he  visited  her  grave, 
the  friends  withdrew — sorrow  such  as  his  was  too  sacred 
for  even  the  eye  of  friendship  to  behold.  Long  and  pas- 
sionately did  he  weep,  prostrated  on  the  earth  that  covered 
her  remains.  There  lay  the  treasure  in  which  his  heart 
was  garnered — there  lay  the  being  whose  image  had  been 
with  him  in  the  mountain  and  the  dell,  in  the  forest  and 
by  the  stream  of  his  native  land — there  lay  the  star  whose 
light  was  to  him  a  gleam  of  Paradise,  quenched  and  lost 
in  the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

Oh,  fearful  are  those  conflicts  of  the  soul ! — fearful  is  it 
to  see  the  strong  man  bowed  to  the  feebleness  of  infancy  ! 
Well  has  it  been  said  by  a  gifted  one,  "  If  there  is  an  all- 
absorbing  passion  in  the  human  soul,  it  is  love  !"  He  who 
in  the  strife  with  men  is  brave,  bold,  and  unyielding,  will 
thrill  and  tremble  at  the  look  of  a  weak  girl — haughty 
though  he  be,  stern  and  imperious,  one  gentle  smile  will 
bend  him  to  her  will.  And  woman  !  the  world  hath  many 
a  record  of  her  deep  devotedness ;  and  could  the  veil  with 
which  the  sensitive  and  shrinking  so  closely  shroud  them- 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  269 

selves  from  common  gaze,  be  drawn  aside,  the  world  would 
read  ten  thousand  records  of  her  fond  and  patient  endur- 
ance. 


CHAPTEE   X. 

"  THE  vessel  sails  to-morrow,  my  dear  uncle,  in  which 
Fortescue  and  myself  return  to  our  native  land ;  the  re- 
membrance of  your  kindness  will  go  with  us,  and  I  know 
that  your  prayers  will  ascend  for  your  sister's  orphan 
child." 

"  God  bless  me,  Ned,  why  do  you  leave  us  ? — stay,  my 
dear  boy,  and  be  to  me  a  son  in  my  old  age.  Never  was 
sister  more  devotedly  loved  by  a  brother  than  your  mother 
was  by  me.  My  poor  Blanche  !  what  a  fond,  warm-hearted 
letter  we  received  from  her  when  she  heard  that  my  baby- 
girl  was  to  be  called  by  her  name,  and  now — they  are  both 
gone  ! — my  sister  and  my  child  !" 

"  Let  me  plead  with  Mr.  Acheson  that  you  will  not  leave 
us,  my  dear  nephew.  You  have  been  with  us  in  those 
hours  which  knit  hearts  most  firmly  together — in  our  hours 
of  sorrow  and  bereavement — you  were  the  untiring  watcher 
over  our  beloved  child.  Stay  with  us,  Edward,  and  through 
the  years  in  which  Grod  is  pleased  to  spare  us  to  each  other, 
we  will  strive  to  pay  you  back  some  part  of  our  debt  of 
love." 

"  Will  you  not  stay  with  us,  cousin  ?"  said  Mary,  throw- 
ing her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  looking  with  tearful  eyes 
in  his  face.  O'Neil  stood  by,  but  there  was  no  jealousy  in 
his  heart  now,  and  he  joined  his  pleadings  with  the  rest. 


270  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

"  My  dearest  friends,  it  pains  me  to  the  soul  to  refuse 
your  request,  but  it  may  not  be — this  is  no  longer  a  land 
for  me  to  dwell  in — Harry  will  remain  with  you,  but,  for 
me,  I  must  away." 

That  night  Edward  and  O'Neil  sat  together  until  near 
morning,  talking  over  the  events  of  their  past  life,  and  of 
Harry's  hopes  and  anticipations  for  the  future. 

"  I  am  thankful,  my  dear  friend,  that  your  day  is  still 
unclouded.  In  Mary  Acheson  you  will  possess  a  sunny 
treasure  of  all  womanly  virtue.  Her  disposition  is  like 
your  own,  ever  ready  to  look  at  the  bright  side  of  the  pic- 
ture, yet  tremblingly  alive  to  the  griefs  and  sorrows  of  her 
friends.  You  know  I  am  not  an  advocate  for  the  opinions 
of  those  who  contend  that  opposite  tastes  and  tempers  har- 
monize best  in  wedded  life.  To  have  a  man  whose  heart 
is  all  sunshine,  whose  soul  is  all  love,  whose  mind  has  been 
long  familiar  with  the  treasures  of  learning  and  of  art,  and 
whose  taste  has  become  fastidiously  refined,  united  to  a 
cold-hearted,  frivolous,  fashionable  woman,  who  cares  for 
none  of  these  things,  think  you  there  can  be  happiness 
there  ? 

"  Or,  to  have  a  woman,  a  gentle,  holy,  and  imaginative 
woman,  whose  heart  is  filled  with  the  poetry  of  life,  and 
who  has  revelled  in  the  burning  pages  of  the  lords  of  song 
— a  woman  who  would  bring  the  stores  of  a  cultivated  in- 
tellect to  make  happy  her  husband's  home,  and  shed  a 
beauty  round  the  common  things  of  every-day  existence — 
to  have  such  a  being  wedded  to  one  who  found  his  pleasure 
in  the  midnight  crowd,  and  from  whom  the  sweet  thoughts 
ever  ready  to  gush  from  her  lips  must  be  hidden,  lest  they 
meet  a  sarcasm  or  a  sneer,  think  you  there  could  be  .Hap- 
piness there  ?" 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  271 

"  No,  Edward  ;  what  is  quaintly  told  by  good  old  Izaak 
Walton  of  the  sainted  George  Herbert  and  his  wife,  '  that 
there  never  was  any  opposition  betwixt  them,  unless  it  were 
a  contest  which  should  most  incline  to  a  compliance  with 
the  other's  desires,'  has  ever  been  before  me  in  my  dreams 
of  wedded  life.  You  know  Mary,  and  you  know  that  my 
dreams  are  about  to  be  realized." 

"  I  know  it,  and  thank  heaven  for  it  Harry  ;  and  now  I 
have  one  request — you  will  not  think  it  weakness — when 
the  pleasant  spring-time  comes,  look  for  the  first  violet  and 
plant  it  on  Blanche's  grave — it  was  her  favorite  flower,  and 
it  is  mine,  too,  Harry — and  when  you  write  me,  pluck  some 
of  the  hallowed  blossoms  and  send  them  over  the  sea  to 
our  distant  land.  I  will  never  see  you  more,  Harry — of 
this  I  am  confident,  but  the  days  we  have  passed  together 
will  linger  pleasantly  in  my  memory,  and  my  thoughts  will 
often  wander  to  your  home.  God  bless  you,  Harry,  I  will 
not  see  any  of  the  family  again.  Fortescue  and  I  have 
arranged  to  leave  at  day-break." 

There  came  one  letter  from  Edward,  thanking  Harry 
for  his  gift  of  flowers — another,  stating  that  Fortescue  and 
he  had  gone  abroad — the  third  was  from  his  friend — Ed- 
ward was  no  more  ! 

Late  in  October  they  reached  Pisa,  intending  to  pass 
the  winter.  As  the  last  of  the  month  drew  nigh,  Fortes- 
cue  endeavored  to  engage  Edward's  attention,  that  if  pos- 
sible the  time  might  pass  unnoticed,  but  memory's  note- 
book held  too  faithful  a  record  of  the  past.  On  the  night 
of  the  30th  he  repeatedly  drew  out  his  watch,  as  if  anxious 
for  some  particular  hour  to  arrive.  At  last  he  exclaimed, 
"  This  is  the  hour — the  hour  on  which  Blanche  bade  us 
good-night  twelve  months  ago — it  was  her  last  pleasant, 


272  BLANCHE     ACHESON. 

sweet  '  good-night' — leave  me,  Guy — I  know  that  you  will 
bear  a  little  longer  with  my  weakness — to-morrow  night  is 
Hallowe'en — you  shall  stay  with  me  then,  Guy — leave  me 
now,  I  entreat  you." 

It  was  with  great  reluctance  that  Fortescue  complied 
with  his  friend's  urgent  wish,  and  left  him  alone  for  the 
night. 

The  next  day  Ogilby  was  confined  to  his  room.  During 
the  morning  he  was  weary  and  exhausted,  and  in  a  state 
of  partial  stupor,  but  as  night  came  on  he  grew  restless 
and  feverish,  raving  incessantly  about  Blanche. 

"  She  has  not  yet  extinguished  her  light — I'll  watch  her 
closely — why  did  she  love  Arthur  Conyngham  ? — ha,  her 
room  is  dark — quite  dark.  God  watch  over  you  until  the 
morrow,  sweet  one." 

As  in  a  dream  words  and  deeds  long  past  will  array 
themselves  vividly  before  the  mind  of  the  sleeper,  so  in  the 
ravings  of  Edward's  delirium  he  was  again  enacting  the 
watcher  over  his  cousin,  again  repeating  words  which  had 
been  uttered. 

Toward  midnight  he  turned  to  Fortescue,  and  in  a  calm, 
rational  tone  asked  the  hour. 

"  It  is  past  eleven  ;  try  and  compose  yourself  to  sleep." 

"  I  shall  soon  sleep,"  said  the  invalid,  with  a  wan  smile. 
"  Blanche  has  long  been  sleeping,  and  the  world  has  been 
dark  to  me  since  her  dear  eyes  were  closed.  You  see  this," 
said  he,  feebly,  showing  a  small  parcel  which  was  fastened 
to  a  black  riband  worn  about  his  neck ;  "  let  them  not  take 
it  from  me  when  I'm  dead,  Guy,  but  lay  it  on  my  heart — 
it  contains  the  withered  violets  from  the  grave  of  Blanche, 
— my  cousin! — my  cousin!"  His  head  fell  back — For- 
tescue bent  over  him — the  lips  were  yet  murmuring, 


BLANCHE     ACHESON.  273 

"Blanche!  Blanche!"  All  was  still;  that  noble,  loving 
heart  at  last  was  broken  ;  and  a  slender  shaft  of  white 
marble,  in  the  English  burying-ground  at  Pisa,  covers  all 
that  was  mortal  of  Edward  Ogilby. 


"  It  is  now  two  years  since  Blanche's  death ;  may  I  not 
claim  your  promise  ?"  said  O'Neil  as  he  sat  by  Mary  Ache- 
son,  who  was  half  abstractedly  turning  over  some  fine  en- 
gravings he  had  that  morning  brought  from  town. 

Sorrow  had  subdued  the  exuberance  of  Mary's  spirits, 
and  lent  a  new  grace  to  her  beauty,  and  a  shade  of  thought- 
fulness  had  settled  on  the  bright  face  of  Harry,  giving  a 
more  manly  tone  to  his  handsome  features. 

"  May  I  not  claim  your  promise  ? — speak,  love ;  say 
that  I  may.  Your  heart  is  mine,  Mary,  why  any  longer 
keep  your  hand  from  me  ?" 

It  was  not  kept,  and  the  next  week  saw  Harry  O'Neil 
the  happiest  of  mortals,  as  he  kissed  ft  ym  the  cheek  of  his 
bride  tears  which  were  falling  at  the  i  emembrance  of  her 
sister's  early  doom. 

12* 


Jfarnur's 


CHAPTEE  I. 

MARTIN  Greene  was  a  thrifty,  industrious  New  Eng- 
land farmer,  living  on  the  old  homestead  left  from 
father  to  son  for  three  successfoe  generations;  yearly 
tilling  the  soil  which  gave  him  back  no  niggardly  reward 
for  his  labor,  and  blessing  God  for  the  ever-bountiful  har- 
vest. 

No  fields  bore  better  grain,  no  orchards  finer  fruit,  than 
those  of  Martin  Greene.  In  kind,  plump,  pleasant-faced 
Mrs.  Greene,  the  farmer  had  indeed  a  true  help-meet. 
She  made  the  sweetest  butter  and  the  best  cheese  in  the 
country,  and  her  well-filled  presses,  groaning  under  the 
weight  of  home-made  linen,  and  home-woven  cloth,  were 
the  wonder  of  chance  city  visitors,  and  the  envy  of  not-so- 
well-to-do  in-the-world  housewives.  The  eldest  daughter, 
Hetty,  was,  as  her  mother  said,  "  a  clever,  sensible  girl, 
her  right  hand  man,"  as  the  good  woman  oddly  expressed 
it.  Hetty  was  in  truth  a  right  hand  to  her  parent.  In 
summer  she  rose  with  the  sun,  and  tripped  away  with 
bench  and  pail  to  milk  the  well-fed  cows.  She  worked 
briskly  at  the  churn,  and  gathered  the  firm  curd,  and  press- 
ed the  cheese,  sometimes  infusing  it  with  the  juice  of  sage, 


THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER.  275 

and  at  others  making  those  delicious  cream  cakes  which 
are  nowhere  so  tempting  as  on  a  farmer's  table.  Well 
might  mother  Greene  call  Hetty  her  right  hand  man  ! 

Two  boys  had  died  in  their  infancy,  and  the  farmer  had 
but  one  other  child  beside  Hetty.  This  was  Lizzy,  who 
had  opened  her  blue,  wondering  eyes  just  ten  years  after 
her  sister  first  saw  the  light. 

Lizzy  was  the  pet  and  plaything  of  the  house.  Her 
pretty  little  lips,  like  a  half-parted  rose-bud,  where  the 
bee  lingers  lovingly,  were  always  upturned  for  a  kiss. 
The  soft,  shining  curls  shadowed  her  pure  forehead  and 
dimpled  cheek,  and  floated  over  her  round,  white  neck  like 
a  str-ay  mesh  of  golden  sunbeams.  Ever  singing  like  a 
bird,  ever  skipping  like  her  own  pet  lamb,  was  bright, 
gleesome,  loving  hearted  Lizzy  Greene ;  and  thus  passed 
her  years  of  childhood,  dancing  through  the  meadows, 
tossed  to  and  fro  among  the  hay,  laughing  at  her  own 
pleasant  fancies  till  all  near  her  caught  the  spirit  of  her 
innocent  mirth,  and  laughed  with  her  without  well  know- 
ing why.  As  she  grew  older,  and  strength  and  knowledge 
came  with  years,  she  was  still  a  privileged  being,  her 
mother  and  sister  working  on  cheerfully,  sometimes  won- 
dering why  Lizzy  did  not  come  and  help  them,  but  always 
finding  a  ready  apology  for  her  remissness.  They  both 
knew  that  Lizzy's  sensitive  nature  could  ill  bear  rebuke, 
and  they  loved  her  too  well,  their  petted  one,  to  bring  a 
tear  to  her  eye,  or  a  pang  to  her  heart.  Then  she  was  so 
delicate,  so  lady-like,  it  would  be  a  pity  not  to  give  her 
every  advantage;  and  after  much  cogitation  the  worthy 
farmer  and  his  wife  thought  it  best  to  send  their  darling 
to  a  boarding-school,  where  she  might  receive  a  finished 
education. 


276       THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER. 

It  was  a  sad  parting,  that  of  Lizzy  from  her  home. 
Again  and  again  did  she  clasp  her  arms  about  her  moth- 
er's neck,  and  kiss  her  weeping  sister,  and  look  round  on 
each  familiar  thing  as  if  she  were  never  to  behold  them 
more.  But  partings,  however  painful,  must  have  an  end, 
and  at  last  Lizzy  and  her  father  were  seated  in  the  covered 
Wagon  which  was  to  convey  them  part  of  their  journey. 

Greatly  awed  was  Lizzy,  when  introduced  to  the  pres- 
ence of  Madame  Clinquante,  the  stylish  lady  who  presided 
over  the  seminary  for  young  ladies  in  Brookville,  and  with 
fluttering  heart,  and  thoughts  in  strange  confusion,  the 
-young  country  girl  almost  wished  she  could  return  home 
with  her  father.  With  a  slightly  supercilious  air,  the  fash- 
ionable instructress  glanced  from  honest  Mr.  Greene  to 
his  daughter.  Horror  of  horrors,  how  antiquated  the  cut 
of  his  coat,  and  how  far  behind  the  mode  the  shape  of  his 
daughter's  bonnet !  But  as  the  good  man  made  no  ob- 
jections to  her  extravagant  charges,  and  placed  his  daugh- 
ter wholly  under  her  control,  Madame  Clinquante  thought 
it  as  well  to  conceal  the  feelings  caused  by  their  rustic  ap- 
pearance, and  graciously  condescended  to  receive  "  Miss 
Elizabeth"  as  a  pupil. 

How  frozen  and  formal  everything  appeared  to  Lizzy 
after  her  father's  departure  !  When  she  made  her  appear- 
ance at  the  tea-table,  and  glanced  timidly  at  the  stiff-look- 
ing, premature  women,  who  were  staring  at  her  short- 
waisted  gingham  dress,  her  tears  began  to  flow,  silently  at 
first,  but  when  she  saw  one  of  the  young  ladies  pull  an- 
other by  the  sleeve,  point  to  where  she  sat,  and  strive  to 
suppress  a  titter,  poor  Lizzy  wept  outright,  and  longed  to 
be  seated  by  her  sister  Hetty,  at  their  own  fireside.  A 
long  time  elapsed  before  the  hitherto  untrammeled  girl, 


THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER.  277 

who  bad  been  accustomed  to  bound  like  a  young  fawn, 
could  be  trained  to  walk  with  the  soft,  mincing  pace  prac- 
tised by  her  schoolmates,  or  to  attain  that  peifection  of 
the  Grecian  bend,  once  absurdly  looked  upon  as  graceful. 
Her  voice,  too,  which  had  ever  been  clear  and  musical, 
must  now  be  sunk  to  the  lowest  tones,  at  times  not  more 
than  half  audible. 

But  none  of  this  frigid  schooling  chilled  her  heart, 
which  bounded  as  warmly  beneath  her  fashionably-length- 
ened silk  bodice,  as  it  had  done  under  her  short-waisted 
gingham  dress.  Yet  Lizzy  was  changed,  and,  almost  un- 
known to  herself,  placed  an  undue  value  on  advantages  in 
themselves  merely  accidental.  Once  or  twice  only  had 
Mrs.  Greene  and  Hetty  accompanied  the  farmer  on  his 
visits  to  the  boarding  school,  and  on  these  occasions,  Mad- 
ame Clinquante's  manner  was  thoroughly  calculated  to 
impress  them  with  her  great  superiority,  particularly  when 
she  asked  them  to  stay  for  dinner,  and  when  a  few  depar- 
tures from  established  etiquette  made  Lizzy  blush  for  her 
mother  and  sister.  But  Mrs.  -Greene  thought  only  of  the 
advantages  conferred  upon  her  daughter  by  being  under 
the  charge  of  such  a  lady,  and  vague  visions  of  future 
greatness  for  her  darling  floated  through  her  brain. 

At  stated  periods  Madame  Clinquante's  reception  rooms 
were  thrown  open  to  visitors,  and  then  were  the  young  la- 
dies dressed  in  a  showy  manner,  and  called  upon  to  ex- 
hibit their  various  acquirements  before  the  admiring 
guests.  What  a  field  of  display  !  What  a  school  for  van- 
ity was  here  !  It  was  no  private  examination  where  im- 
partial judges  might  decide  upon  the  advancement  of  the 
pupils  in  knowledge  truly  useful.  It  proceeded  not  from 
the  kind  desire  to  charm  a  home  circle  by  the  quiet  exer- 


278  THE   FARMER'S  DAUGHTER. 

cise  of  graceful  accomplishments.  No,  it  was  a  jealous 
struggle  as  to  who  should  make  themselves  most  agreeable 
to  the  young  gentlemen  who  turned  the  pages  of  their  mu- 
sic, or  were  their  partners  in  the  dance,  and  by  whom  they 
were  praised  and  flattered  in  the  language  of  silly  and 
empty  compliment.  And  in  such  a  school  as  the  seminary 
for  young  ladies  at  Brookville,  and  under  such  an  instruc- 
tress as  Madame  Clinquante.  Lizzy  Greene  finished  her  edu- 
cation. 

We  have  said  before  that  Lizzy's  heart  was  warm  as 
ever,  and  on  her  return  home  she  seemed  unchanged.  But 
soon  the  constant  work,  work,  work,  which  she  saw  on 
every  side  became  distasteful  to  her,  and  instead  of  accom- 
panying her  mother  to  the  dairy,  or  her  father  to  the  or- 
chard, she  would  sit  for  hours  at  the  piano,  which  had 
found  its  way  into  the  best  room,  and  sigh  for  the  artificial 
stimulus  that  once  roused  her  energies  into  action.  Ah, 
Lizzy,  Lizzy,  why  did  your  too  indulgent  parents  spoil  a 
country  girl  with  a  city  lady's  finished  education  ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  WELL,  I  do  wish  our  Lizzy  would  take  a  liking  to 
Morris  Wilson,"  said  Mrs.  Greene  to  her  husband,  as  they 
were  walking  together  in  the  lane  which  led  from  their 
house ;  "  he's  such  a  good  steady  young  man,  and  owns 
such  a  fine  farm,  and  then  she'd  be  so  near  us,  do  you  try 
and  persuade  her  to  it." 

"  There  is  no  use  in  trying  to  persuade  her,  I  fear,"  re- 


THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER.  279 

oiled  the  farmer  with  a  sigh,  "  Lizzy's  not  like  the  girl  she 
was,  and  Morris  Wilson  is  too  plain  and  blunt -like  to  suit 
her  notions." 

"  But  he  is  so  kind-hearted,  and  honest,  and  upright, 
and  he  raises  better  grain  than  any  of  the  young  men 
about  here.  I'm  sure  he  would  make  her  an  excellent 
husband,  for  I  believe  he  loves  the  very  ground  she  walks 
on." 

"  Yes,  I  think  he  does,  and  I  often  pity  him  when  he  is 
trying  to  do  little  things  he  thinks  will  please  her,  and  she 
looks  so  coldly  on  him.  Once  I  did  hope  to  have  Morris 
for  a  son-in-law,  and  I  thought  Lizzy  had  a  kind  of  bash- 
ful liking  for  him,  but  if  she  ever  had  it  is  all  over  now, 
and  sorry  am  I ;  for  as  you  say,  wife,  he  would  make  her 
an  excellent  husband." 

"  Well,  if  I  thought  iizzy  stood  a  chance  of  marrying 
a  gentleman,  and  living  in  style  as  they  did  at  Madame 
Clinkee's,  I'd  not  say  another  word  about  Morris,  for  I 
think  somehow  Lizzy  is  not  well  calculated  for  a  farmer's 
wife,  though  I've  heard  Morris  say  he'd  never  want  his 
wife  to  work,  only  just  to  superintend  like." 

"  And  without  our  Lizzy  pays  more  attention  to  what  is 
going  on  about  the  house,  I'm  afraid  she  will  never  be  able 
even  to  superintend.  It  was  hardly  right  to  send  her  so 
long  to  that  boarding  school." 

"  It  was  done  for  the  best,  and  there's  no  knowing  what 
good  may  come  of  it  yet.  But  I'm  sorry  she  don't  take 
more  after  her  sister,  for  if  it  wa'n't  for  the  help  I  get 
from  Hetty,  I  should  never  be  able  to  manage  and  keep 
things  to  rights." 

On  returning  from  their  walk,  farmer  Grreene  and  his 
wife  were  surprised  at  seeing  a  dashing- looking  equipage 


280  THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER. 

standing  near  the  paling  in  front  of  their  house.  On  en- 
tering, they  found  Lizzy  all  smiles  and  blushes,  talking  to 
a  strange  young  gentleman,  whom  she  introduced  to  her 
parents  as  Mr.  Vinton,  a  friend  of  Madame  Clinquante. 

Mr.  Vinton  informed  the  good  people  that  he  was  trav- 
elling for  the  summer,  and  finding  himself  in  their  neigh- 
borhood, he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  calling  on 
Miss  Elizabeth,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  during 
her  last  year's  residence  at  Brookville. 

Charmed-  with  his  afiable  and  pleasing  manners,  farmer 
Greene  shook  him  cordially  by  the  hand,  and  pressed  him 
to  stay  for- dinner,  which  was  then  in  the  course  of  prepa- 
ration. The  invitation  was  politely  declined  by  the  visit- 
or, while  at  the  same  time  he  carelessly  remarked,  "  that 
he  might  remain  a  few  days  in  the  vicinity,  and  trusted  he 
should  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them  again,"  then  shak- 
ing hands  with  the  old  people,  and  bowing  to  Lizzy,  Mr 
Vinton  took  his  leave. 

That  night  as  usual,  Morris  Wilson  was  at  Mr.  Greene's, 
and  Lizzy's  manner  toward  him  was  colder  than  ever. 
They  were  all  seated  under  the  front  porch,  and  somehow 
one  after  another  stole  away,  until  Morris  and  Lizzy  were 
left  alone  together,  she,  absorbed  in  thought,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  cloudless  full  moon  sailing  calmly  through  the 
sky,  and  wholly  unconscious  of  her  companion's  presence. 
Morris  had  never  directly  spoken  to  her  of  the  wish  that 
lay  nearest  his  heart.  He  was  in  love,  and  true  love  ever 
begets  a  feeling  of  deference  toward  the  object  beloved, 
and  a  lowly  opinion  of  one's  own  merits.  He  knew  'iim- 
self  wanting  in  the  polish  to  which  Lizzy  had  for  th<  last 
three  years  been  accustomed,  and  since  her  return  hf  had 
been  on  the  point  of  taking  lessons  from  a  travelling  dan- 


THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER.  281 

cing-master ;  nay  he  went  so  far  as  to  buy  a  flute,  hoping 
some  day  to  delight  his  idol  with  his  melodious  music. 
Simple-hearted  Morris  Wilson  ! 

He  was,  as  we  have  said,  left  alone  with  her  he  loved. 
How  beautiful  she  looked  in  the  softening  moonlight,  with 
her  white  dress,  and  the  knot  of  heart's-ease  in  her  bosom  ! 
Yes,  he  would  tell  her  of  his  love,  of  his  hopes,  of  his 
fears,  and  he  would  plead  that  she  might  one  day  be  his 
own — his  treasured  one,  his  wife.  Oh,  how  his  heart 
bounded  at  the  thought !  to  call  her  wife  !  That  name, 
so  bright  with  heart-truth,  with  happiness,  so  full  of  every 
endearing,  every  tender  and  holy  joy  that  clusters  around 
home.  Yes,  he  would  ask  Lizzy  to  be  his  wife  ! 

But  Morris  was  seized  with  a  nervous  trepidation  when 
he  laid  his  hand  on  hers,  his  tongue  faltered,  and  he  could 
but  articulate,  "  Lizzy !" 

The  young  girl  turned,  and  looking  full  upon  him,  with- 
drew her  hand.  "  Lizzy !"  again  murmured  Morris — for 
a  few  moments  there  was  an  embarrassing  silence,  and  then 
summoning  his  fast-failing  courage,  briefly  and  truthfully 
the  lover  urged  his  suit. 

"  Mr.  Wilson,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  this,  I  always  looked 
upon  you  as  a  friend  of  my  parents,  and  in  no  other  light 
can  I  ever  regard  you." 

"  In  no  other  light !  oh,  Lizzy,  do  not  say  so,  I  am 
willing  to  wait,  and  if  we  were  more  together  you  might 
think  differently.  I  know  I  have  not  the  refinement  that 
you  have,  Lizzy,  but  you  could  make  me  what  you  wish, 
for  I  love  you  with  my  whole  soul,  I  do,  indeed,  Lizzy. 
Stay  only  one  moment  longer,  don't  turn  so  coldly  from 
me." 

"  Morris  Wilson."     Morris  raised  his  eyes  to  the  speak- 


282  THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER. 

er.  Like  dew-drops  on  the  rose-leaf,  the  tears  were  trem- 
bling on  Lizzy's  cheek,  and  the  lover  gained  new  hope. 

"  I  thought  you  could  not  be  so  cruel,  you  will  bid  me 
wait,  will  you  not,  Lizzy  ?  oh,  if  you  knew  how  fondly  I 
have  loved  you  from  your  childhood,  from  the  time  that  I, 
a  great  lubberly  boy,  carried  your  satchel  to  the  school- 
house,  and  contrived  to  be  in  the  way  when  you  were  re- 
turning home,  that  I  might  find  an  excuse  for  lifting  you 
over  the  stones,  and  carrying  you  round  the  pond  in  the 
meadow,  and  how  my  heart  beat  when  I  caught  you  up  in 
my  arms,  and  tossed  you  into  the  hay,  while  you  were  shak- 
ing the  curls  over  your  eyes  and  playing  bo-peep  with  me." 

"  Do  not  speak  thus,  Morris,  you  grieve  me.  I  would  not 
willingly  pain  any  one,  much  less^you,  who  have  always 
been  as  a  brother  to  me ;  be  to  me  a  friend  ;  I  know  this 
sounds  coldly,  well  then,  I  will  not  ask  it.  Dislike  me,  if 
you  will,  Morris,  but  try  and  forget  that  you  have  ever 
cared  for  me,  and  I  may  yet  see  you  happy  with  one  who 
is  worthy  of  you,  and  who  can  return  your  love." 

"  And  is  this  final,  Lizzy  ?  can  you  give  me  no  hope  ? 
or,  tell  me — do  you  care  for  another  ?" 

"This  latter  is  a  question  you  have  no  right  to  ask," 
said  the  girl  proudly ;  "  no,  I  can  give  you  no  hope." 

"  And  I  can  give  no  other  woman  my  heart.  Yes,  I 
will  be  your  friend,  Lizzy ;  for,  God  help  me,  this  love 
has  grown  too  deep  ever  to  be  rooted  out !" 

Lizzy  was  touched  by  the  sorrowful  tone  of  the  speaker, 
and  with  impulsive  earnestness  she  clasped  Morris's  hand 
in  hers,  and  raised  it  to  her  lips.  It  was  the  error  of  a 
moment,  and  before  she  was  aware  of  it,  he  whom  she  had 
refused  as  a  lover  pressed  his  lips  to  her  forehead,  and 
sought  to  circle  her  waist. 


THE  FARMER'S   DAUGHTER.  283 

"  Morris,  Morris,  I  did  wrong,  I  should  have  left  you 
at  once  ;  it  is  my  fault  that  you  have  thus  forgotten  your- 
self; when  I  said  that  I  could  give  you  no  hope,  why  did 
I  allow  my  conduct  to  belie  my  words  ?  oh,  Morris,  I  did 
wrong,  but  I  could  not  help  it,  I  saw  you  suffering  and 
sought  to  soothe  you,  but  it  was  wrong,  Morris,  it  was 
wrong !" 

"  And  so  it  is  all  over,  and  this  may  be  our  last  meet- 
ing, Lizzy,  for  I  cannot  trust  myself  in  your  presence ;  now 
Heaven  give  me  help  !" 

Lizzy  went  up  to  her  little  chamber  with  a  heavy  heart. 
She  watched  the  figure  of  Morris  as  it  retreated  in  the 
distance,  and  wept  to  think  she  was  the  cause  of  his  un- 
happiness.  His  pleadings  had  recalled  by-gone  acts  of 
kindness?  which  she  had  always  received  as  if  coming  from 
a  brother,  and  now  when  he  told  her  the  happiness  of  his 
life  was  in  her  keeping,  she  could  give  him  but  her  chary 
friendship  for  his  wealth  of  love.  What  woman  of  keen 
sensibilities  but  would  be  pained  under  circumstances  like 
these  ?  How  could  she  look  with  cold  indifference  upon 
the  man  who  in  the  warm  abandonment  of  a  true  heart  had 
proffered  her  his  all  ?  With  the  heartless  coquette,  such 
devotion  but  ministers  sweet  incense  to  her  vanity,  and 
the  woman  devoid  of  principle  may  triumph  in  her  con- 
quest over  hearts,  and  boast  her  refusal  of  proffered  hands. 
Lizzy  was  neither,  and  but  for  the  instinctive  delicacy 
which  told  her  it  was  wrong,  she  could  have  wept  with 
Morris,  and  in  the  tenderest  manner  have  striven  to  soothe 
the  sorrow  of  her  disappointed  lover. 

Poor  Morris  Wilson  !  for  years  his  hopes  had  centred 
in  one  object.  For  this,  he  had  toiled  late  and  early,  for 
this,  his  grain  was  the  finest,  and  his  meadow  the  smooth' 


284  THE  FARMER'S   DAUGHTER. 

est,  for  this,  his  farm-house  was  the  neatest,  and  his  paling 
the  whitest,  in  the  country  round.  For  this,  the  fragrant 
honey-suckle,  and  the  heavy-scented  syringa,  and  the  tall 
rose  of  Sharon,  bloomed  beside  his  door.  For  this,  the 
dove-cote  had  been  hung  in  the  poplar  before  the  porch, 
and  the  rose-bushes  in  the  garden  had  been  grafted,  and 
the  stepping-stones  placed  in  the  brook,  and  the  rustic  ar- 
bor reared  on  the  hill  beneath  the  sun-lit  branches  of  the 
twin  elms.  All  had  been  for  this — for  this  ! — for  what  ? 
— that  Lizzy  might  be  the  mistress,  the  queen  of  his  world 
of  home ! 

What  wonder  when  he  found  that  all  had  been  for 
naught — when  he  knew  that  Lizzy's  hand  would  never  feed 
the  doves,  nor  pull  the  flowers,  when  he  knew  that  she 
would  never  sit  beneath  the  porch,  as  his  own,  his  loved 
and  loving  wife,  what  wonder  that  Morris  Wilson  turned 
in  bitterness  from  the  many  objects  of  his  care  ? 


CHAPTER  III. 

MRS.  VINTON  was  the  very  pattern  of  amiability  and 
courtesy  to  her  equals,  but  proud,  haughty  and  arrogant 
to  her  inferiors.  Married  to  an  easy,  good-tempered  man, 
who  inherited  a  large  property,  she  was  enabled  to  gratify 
every  caprice  which  her  ambition  or  her  vanity  suggested. 
After  half  a  lifetime  devoted  to  ^olly,  finery  and  fashion 
at  home,  she  determined  on  going  abroad.  A  few  months 
were  spent  in  posting  through  Germany  and  Italy,  when 
she  settled  down  for  a  four  years'  residence  in  Paris,  and 


THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER.  285 

here  the  crowning  glory  was  given  to  her  "  vaulting  ambi- 
tion," by  the  marriage  of  her  daughter  to  a  roue  and  a 
title.  On  her  return  to  Boston,  her  increased  hauteur  of 
manner  made  her  unbearable  to  those  who  were  in  any 
way  dependent  on  her,  and  her  frequent  allusions  to  "  my 
daughter,  the  countess,"  rendered  her  the  secret  laughing- 
stock of  half  her  acquaintance. 

Alfred  Vinton  was,  like  his  father,  extremely  good- 
natured,  and  having  a  bountiful  supply  of  money  always 
at  command,  was  easily  initiated  into  the  liberties  of  jeune 
France,  and  learned  to  quaff  his  wine  and  bet  his  gold 
with  perfect  freedom.  But  a  habit  was  forming,  a  love  for 
the  Circean  draught  of  pleasure,  which,  if  not  resisted  in 
time,  will  bind  the  strongest  in  bands  of  iron. 

Though  little  more  than  twenty,  in  the  very  spring-time 
of  his  life,  the  dawning  of  his  manhood,  Alfred  Vinton  was 
fast  becomiug  a  debauchee.  Except  in  a  certain  air  of 
lassitude,  usually  dispelled  by  the  strong  morning  stimu- 
lant, except  in  this,  and  an  appearance  of  being  older  than 
he  really  was,  no  outward  signs  yet  told  of  the  nightly 
orgies  which  were  sapping  his  life  to  its  foundation. 

It  was  not  long  after  his  return  from  Paris  with  his 
parents  that  he  accompanied  his  mother  to  Madame  Clin- 
quante's,  on  a  visit  to  an  orphan  cousin  who  had  been 
placed  in  the  academy  at  Brookville.  An  invitation  to 
one  of  Madame's  soirees  was  declined  by  Mrs.  Vinton,  but 
accepted  by  her  son,  who,  after  a  brief  introduction,  chatted 
and  danced  during  the  greater  part  of  the  evening  with 
Lizzy  Greene.  The  freshness  of  this  young  girl's  mind, 
unhackneyed  as  she  was  in  the  ways  of  fashionable  life,  the 
frankness  and  warmth  of  soul  that  breathed  in  her  every 
word  and  action,  were  in  such  charming  contrast  with  the 


THE     FARMER   8     DAUGHTER. 

affected  and  conventional  manners  of  the  young  ladies  by 
whom  she  was  surrounded,  that  Alfred's  heart  was  taken 
captive  unawares,  and  he  became  a  frequent  visitor  at 
Madame  Clinquante's  until  Lizzy  left  the  seminary. 

After  her  departure  he  resolved  to  see  her  again,  and 
trust  to  chance  for  the  suceess  of  his  wooing,  and  thus  re- 
solving, it  was  not  long  before  he  took  up  his  abode  in 
farmer  Greene's  vicinity.  He  soon  ingratiated  himself 
into  the  good  graces  of  the  old  people,  and  Mrs.  Greene 
was  delighted  with  his  marked  attention  to  Lizzy ;  even  the 
good  farmer  was  so  far  brought  under  the  influence  of  his 
wife,  as  to  think  that,  after  all,  the  girl  might  do  better 
than  by  taking  Morris  Wilson  for  a  husband.  Could  Al- 
fred Vinton  have  borne  away  Lizzy  from  her  home  with- 
out the  promise  of  making  her  his  wife,  he  would  not  have 
scrupled  to  do  so,  but  he  knew  this  to  be  impossible ; 
Lizzy  loved  him,  but  her's  was  a  love  that  would  not  stoop 
to  degradation.  One  day  the  old  gentleman  spoke  to 
Alfred  on  the  subject  of  his  daily  visits,  and  with  a  father's 
solicitude  wished  to  know  whether  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Vinton 
knew  of  his  attentions  to  Lizzy.  The  young  man  said 
they  did,  and  he  reluctantly  confessed  that  his  mother 
urged  his  return  home,  as  she  never  could  consent  to  such 
an  alliance. 

Farmer  Greene  was  proud  in  his  own  way,  as  proud  as 
Mrs.  Vinton  was  in  hers.  He  declared  that  no  child  of 
his  should  creep  into  a  family  clandestinely,  that  he  con- 
sidered his  Lizzy  had  come  of  as  good  and  honest  people 
as  the  best  of  them,  and  he  thought  her  quite  as  much  of 
a  lady  as  any  he  had  seen  at  Brookville.  To  all  this  Al- 
fred assented,  and  endeavored  to  conciliate  the  good  man 
by  saying,  that  if  Lizzy  were  once  his  wife,  and  could  she 


THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER.  287 

be  seen  by  his  mother,  he  doubted  not  that  lady  would  be 
proud  to  receive  her  as  a  daughter.  But  this  would  not 
satisfy  Mr.  Greene,  and  all  further  visiting  at  the  house 
was  prohibited. 

Yet  Alfred  would  not  thus  be  baffled,  he  contrived  oc- 
casionally to  meet  Lizzy  in  her  walks,  and  to  have  notes 
conveyed  to  her  through  his  servant.  In  vain  did  Lizzy, 
fearful  of  the  weakness  of  her  own  loving  heart,  beg  Alfred 
to  leave  the  place.  But  he  knew  too  well  his  vantage- 
ground,  and  pleaded  with  such  earnestness  that  she  whom 
he  idolized  would  allow  him  to  meet  her  but  once  at  the 
old  trysting-place,  that  at  last  Lizzy's  resolution  gave  way, 
and,  with  trembling  steps  and  remorseful  conscience,  she 
went  to  her  first  stolen  interview. 

"  I  cannot  come  again,  do  not  ask  it,  Alfred,"  she  re- 
plied to  the  urgent  entreaties  of  her  lover,  "  already  am 
I  lowered  by  thus  meeting  you  without  the  knowledge  of 
my  parents  ;  it  is  so  humiliating  to  act  a  falsehood ;  oh, 
do  not  urge  me,  Alfred,  I  am  but  a  poor  weak  girl,  and 
when  I  see  you  so  grieved  at  the  thought  of  parting,  all 
my  good  resolves  seem  to  fail  me ;  now  that  I  have  laid 
open  my  heart  and  let  you  see  its  weakness,  be  generous, 
do  not  urge  me,  Alfred." 

But  Alfred's  love  was  no  holy,  self-sacrificing  passion. 
He  did  urge  Lizzy,  and  he  plied  her  with  sophisms  to  show 
that  there  could  be  no  harm  in  her  meeting  him  but  once 
again,  and  soon  moonlight  and  starlight  saw  Lizzy  Greene 
at  the  end  of  the  orchard  where  it  joined  the  wood,  seated 
on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  with  her  hand  close  locked 
in  that  of  her  lover  ! 

"  Why  what  makes  Lizzy  stay  so  long  at  Susan  Jansen's 
to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Greene,  returning  from  the  door  where 


288  THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER. 

she  had  long  stood  watching  for  her  daughter,  "  I  didn't 
know  as  they  was  going  to  have  any  company  to-day,  and 
she's  not  been  to  home  since  two  o'clock.  I  guess  you'd 
better  go  and  fetch  her,  Mr.  Greene." 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  thinking  about  going  this  half-hour, 
I'll  not  be  gone  long,  so  just  tell  Hetty  to  keep  the  bone- 
set  tea  warm,  for  my  cold  is  getting  rather  troublesome." 

After  a  long  time,  as  it  appeared  to  Mrs.  Greene  and 
Hetty,  the  farmer  returned — he  was  alone ! 

"  Goodness  !  where's  Lizzy  ?  what  made  you  leave  her 
any  longer  ?"  Mr.  Greene  made  no  reply,  but  tottered  to 
a  chair ;  his  face  was  pale  and  his  looks  disordered. 

"  Father,"  said  Hetty,  as  she  took  his  hat  which  he  held 
listlessly  in  his  hand,  "  father,  what  has  happened  ?  where 
is  Lizzy  ?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  she  has  not  been  at  Jansen's  since  three 
o'clock." 

"  Mercy  on  me,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Greene,  "  why  didn't 
you  go  to  Smith's  and  Tornpkin's ;  she  may  have  dropped 
in  to  see  the  girls." 

"  I  did,  she  was  in  neither  place,  and  I  fear,  I  fear — 

"  What  ?  what  ?  tell  me  quickly,  what  do  you  fear, 
Martin  ?" 

"  That  she  has  gone  with  young  Vinton.  George  Jan- 
sen  told  me  he  saw  him  paes  their  house  not  ten  minutes 
before  Lizzy  left  it,  and  Seth  Tompkins  said,  when  he  was 
coming  from  mill,  young  Vinton's  carriage  passed  him  with 
a  lady  in  it,  but  the  driver  made  the  horses  fly  so  fast,  he 
couldn't  get  a  sight  of  her  face." 

"  My  God,"  said  the  poor  heart-stricken  mother,  "  our 
Lizzy  gone  away  from  us !" 

It  was  too  true.     She,  the  petted,  the  caressed,  the  lady- 


THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER.  289 

bird  of  the  household,  the  idolized  of  her  parents'  hearts, 
the  pride  of  her  country  home,  she  had  forsaken  all  to  go 
with  Alfred  Vinton,  and  become  the  dweller  in  a  city  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AT  the  window  of  an  apartment  which  looked  toward  the 
west  stood  a  female  watching  the  broad,  red  disc  of  the 
setting  sun,  as  it  gradually  neared  the  verge  of  the  horizon. 
Lower  and  lower  it  sank.  The  molten  masses  of  clouds  it 
had  fused  and  flung  abroad  in  glowing  beauty,  were  fast  as- 
suming that  dull  gray,  leaden  hue,  with  which  the  last  ves- 
tige of  fading  twilight  deepens  into  night.  One  narrow  belt 
of  fire  alone  remained.  Remained  as  if  it  knew  an  anxious 
face  were  watching  its  decline.  As  if  it  knew  that  heart- 
throbs increased  in  agony  as  its  brightness  was  withdrawn. 
Lower  and  lower — it  quivers — it  is  gone !  oh,  fondly  su- 
perstitious human  heart,  why  link  thy  hopes  with  such  an 
omen  ? 

For  awhile  the  female  stood,  statue-like,  with  clasped 
hands,  and  eyes  gazing  on  the  far-off  heavens. 

"  Oh,  God  !  it  is  all  over.  I  said  that  his  return  before 
the  setting  sun  should  be  an  omen  of  good — a  pledge  that 
he  would  yet  redeem  himself — an  earnest  that  his  word 
was  sacred.  He  is  not  here.  It  is  all  over  !  oh,  merciful 
One  !  there  is  no  hope  !" 

Why  are  there  moments  in  life,  when  the  strongest 
minded  yield  to  a  superstitious  dread  ?  Why  is  it  that  at 
times  4iere  is  a  chill  creeping  of  the  blood,  an  involuntary 
13 


290  THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER. 

shudder,  as  if  the  wing  of  a  spirit  had  touched  us  in  pass- 
ing by  ?  Whence  the  awe  that  we  feel  when  left  at  night 
alone  with  the  dead  ?  We  know  they  cannot  look  on  us  in 
anger — they  cannot  speak  to  us  unkindly — they  cannot 
loosen  their  icy  bands,  and  overpower  our  weak  natures 
with  the  shock  of  seeing  the  dead  start  suddenly  to  life. 
We  know  all  this,  and  yet  we  tread  softly,  as  if  afraid  of 
awaking  them,  we  approach  reverently  as  into  a  pure  and 
holy  presence,  and  we  turn  away  tremblingly,  and  seek  the 
society  of  those  who  yet  tabernacle  in  the  flesh. 

Why  is  all  this  ?  Is  there  but  the  veil  of  sense  drawn 
between  the  outer  world  and  the  world  unseen  ?  Why  do 
some  look  to  the  blooming  or  withering  of  a  flower,  some 
to  the  appearing  or  disappearing  of  a  star,  and  others  to 
the  rising  or  setting  of  the  sun — as  auguries  of  evil  or  of 
good  ?  We  cannot  fathom  why  !  We  but  know  that  it  is 
so,  and  that,  by  nine  out  of  ten,  in  this  matter-of-fact  world, 
it  is  called  superstition  ! 

Slowly  the  female  turned  from  the  window  and  seated 
herself  near  the  fire.  Its  ruddy  light  beamed  full  upon 
her  face,  which  was  very  pale  and  sad,  and  the  cheerful  glow 
fell  on  her  small  hands  as  if  wishing  to  warm  the  poor 
heart  over  which  they  were  clasped.  A  servant  entered, 
placed  lights  upon  the  table,  and  silently  withdrew.  The 
apartments  had  that  air  of  simple  elegance  which  always 
betokens  the  residence  of  a  gentle  spirit.  The  snowy  em- 
broidery blended  its  gossamer  folds  with  the  soft,  blue 
damask  which  curtained  the  windows,  and  fell  in  wavy 
beauty  to  the  floor.  There  were  small,  antique  shaped  por- 
celain vases,  filled  with  fragrant  flowers;  there  were  books, 
enriched  with  the  rarest  dreams  of  the  painter  and  the 
poet ;  and  there  was  music,  waiting  but  the  touch  to  gush 


THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER.       291 

in  sweetness  from  its  airy  cell.  And  she,  the  mistress  of 
this  beautiful  home — cannot  all  these  treasures  rouse  her 
from  the  painful  reverie  into  which  she  has  fallen  ?  Ah, 
no  !  Memory  and  conscience  are  at  work.  She  sees  her 
own  fond  parents  grieving  sorely,  even  as  she  has  grieved 
over  her  own  dead  child.  She  knows  that  she  has  forsaken 
them  in  their  old  age,  and  therefore  has  no  claim  on  the 
rewards  promised  to  the  dutiful  and  obedient.  She  has 
been  waiting  and  watching  for  him  with  whom  she  fled,  and 
the  omen  has  been  of  evil,  which  her  fondly  credulous  heart 
had  hoped  would  be  of  good.  And  now  when  she  longs 
for  the  old  familiar  voices  of  her  early  hoflie,  when  her 
heart  is  panting  for  one  loving  breast  on  which  to  lean  and 
weep  her  sorrow,  Elizabeth  Vinton  sits  alone,  with  Memory 
and  with  Conscience  ! 

Two  years  have  passed  since  Lizzy  Greene  was  tempted 
by  her  lover  to  leave  her  father's  house.  "When  Alfred 
Vinton  thought  they  were  beyond  the  reach  of  pursuit,  he 
made  the  weeping  girl  his  wife ;  but  it  was  a  secret  mar- 
riage, and  was  to  remain  such,  until  his  mother  could  be 
induced  to  receive  Lizzy  as  her  daughter-IE  law. 

Alfred  vainly  supposed  that  his  mother's  anger  would  be 
of  short  duration,  and  that  when  she  found  he  was  actually 
married,  her  pride  would  give  way,  and  he  be  reinstated  in 
her  favor.  He  had  therefore  taken  Lizzy  to  Boston,  and 
placed  her  in  lodgings,  where  she  was  to  remain  until  the 
fav:rable  moment  arrived.  But  day  after  day,  he  met  his 
,  wife's  tearful  inquiries  with  the  same  answer,  his  mother 
was  inexorable.  Lizzy  tried  hard  to  bear  up  under  her  trial, 
which  was  now  assuming  a  most  serious  aspect.  The  peo- 
ple in  the  house,  where  she  lodged,  grew  coldly  civil  to  her. 
If  she  came  unawares  upon  a  group  of  ladies  talking  to- 


292  THE  FARMER'S   DAUGHTER. 

gether,  they  would  bow  formally  and  leave  the  place.  She 
felt  like  a  shunned  thing,  yet  she  knew  not  why  she  was  so. 
At  length  some  vague  rumors  reached  her,  and  with  a 
shudder,  she  learned  that  the  breath  of  suspicion  had  sul- 
lied her  fair  fame,  that  she  was  looked  upon  as  Mr.  Vin- 
ton's  paramour  !  Oh,  agony  of  agonies,  to  a  young,  pure 
heart.  Oh,  torture,  bordering  on  madness,  to  the  woman 
in  whose  spirit  a  lofty  honor  sits  enthroned !  Charitable 
in  her  judgment  of  others,  severe  alone  to  herself,  had  an- 
other been  placed  in  her  situation,  had  another  even  been, 
what  she  was  suspected  of  being,  Lizzy  would  have  pitied 
the  erring  one,  and  forborne  to  add  to  her  humiliation. 
But  compassion  for  the  individual  can  exist  with  abhor- 
rence of  the  crime,  and  often  the  woman  who  grieves  most 
deeply  for  the  errors  of  her  sex,  would  be  well-nigh  mad- 
dened at  the  imputation  of  such  error  to  herself.  Thus 
was  it  with  Lizzy,  and  for  a  fortnight,  while  her  husband 
had  gone  as  she  supposed  on  business  to  a  neighboring  city, 
did  she  writhe  under  her  disgrace.  On  Alfred's  return, 
she  timidly  ventured  to  inform  him  of  what  had  occurred 
during  his  absence,  and  begged  him  no  longer  to  keep  their 
marriage  a  secret  from  the  world.  He  made  but  little  re- 
ply, save  that  they  would  soon  leave  their  present  abode; 
and  in  a  short  time  he  took  her  to  an  elegantly-furnished 
house,  of  which  he  told  her  they  and  their  servants  were 
to  be  the  sole  occupants. 

Months  passed  away  in  total  seclusion,  and  Lizzy  forgot 
her  sorrows  in  anticipation  of  the  fond  maternal  joys  that 
might  soon  be  hers.  But  ere  the  mother's  consciousness 
after  suffering  was  fully  restored,  ere  she  could  press  her 
darling's  soft  lip  to  hers,  and  feel  its  warm  breath  upon 
her  cheek,  and  nestle  its  little  head  in  her  bosom,  ere  she 


THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER.      293 

could  fold  it  to  her  Leart  and  say,  "  God  bless  thee,  my 
baby-love,"  the  young  soul  had  flitted  back  to  paradise. 

Fast  on  the  footsteps  of  life,  followed  the  tread  of  death. 
One  glance  on  the  new  world  which  it  had  entered,  one 
hopeless  cry  of  suffering,  one  convulsive  throe,  and  it  wag 
gone !  The  mother's  heart  had  lost  its  dearest  jewel,  but 
another  star  was  in  the  sky  !  The  mother's  ear  had  lost  its 
sweetest  music,  but  the  banded  cherubim  was  listening  to 
another  harp  ?  Mourn  not,  oh,  thou  bereft !  thy  baby  "  is 
an  angel  now  !"  Ah,  it  is  not  in  the  first  burst  of  passion- 
ate grief  that  the  childless  mother  can  cease  to  mourn. 
Her  face  is  covered  and  they  think  her  sleeping,  but  she 
has  turned  away  to  hide  her  sorrow,  and  to  "  water  her 
couch  with  tears."  In  the  solemn  hush  of  the  lonely  hours 
of  night,  she  presses  her  hands  convulsively  upon  her 
breast  and  sobs — "oh,  that  it  lay  here  !"  Even  long  after 
others  have  forgotten  that  she  has  lost  a  child,  when  all 
outward  signs  of  sorrow  have  passed  away,  the  mother's 
hand  softly  unfolds  her  infant's  tiny  robes,  and  lays  them 
by  again  with  gentle  care ;  the  mother's  heart  wanders  to 
the  green  churchyard,  and  longs  to  still  its  beatings  on  the 
baby's  quiet  bed. 

Poor,  poor  Lizzy !  for  a  few  days  only  did  her  husband 
seem  to  feel  the  loss,  and  then  with  renewed  zest  he  turned 
to  his  debasing  pleasures. 

It  was  while  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  her  child  was  still 
most  acute,  that  she  stood  watching  the  declining  sun,  and 
waiting  the  return  of  her  husband.  He  had  promised  to 
be  home  ere  nightfall,  but  so  often  had  he  failed  in  his 
promises  that  none  save  a  wife  would  have  looked  for  their 
fulfilment.  She  had  once  more  cheated  herself  into  the 
belief  that  he  would  yet  fling  off  the  vile  shackles  that 


294  THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER. 

were  chaining  him  in  the  mire  of  sensuality,  and  rise  a  re- 
newed, a  regenerated  man  ;  and  her  credulous  heart,  after 
losing  every  firmer  stay,  had  linked  its  hopes  to  a  fallacious 
omen.  But  he  came  not.  The  clock  ticked  on  and  on,  and 
sounded  the  alarm  as  hour  after  hour  lew  away  in  the  dim 
halls  of  the  silent  past — the  fire  flickered  feebly,  no  longer 
casting  its  ruddy  glow  full  on  the  pale  face  of  the  watcher, 
but  leaving  it  half  buried  in  shadow — the  lights  were  burn- 
ing low  in  their  sockets,  and  coldness  and  gloom,  twin- 
children  of  sorrow  and  night,  were  brooding  over  the  de- 
serted home. 

Toward  morning  Elizabeth  was  roused  from  an  uneasy 
slumber  by  a  noise  in  front  of  the  house.  Its  meaning 
was  but  too  well  known  to  her,  and  trembling  with  uncon- 
trollable agitation,  she  went  to  the  front  door  and  opened 
it.  A  speechless  mass  of  inebriety,  her  husband  was  car- 
ried in  and  laid  on  the  sofa.  It  was  thus  he  had  kept  his 
promise  !  "  No  hope  !  no  hope  !"%  groaned  the  poor  heart- 
broken wife  as  she  threw  herself  into  a  chair  to  pray  and 
weep,  and  in  the  fitful  slumber  brought  on  by  sheer  ex- 
haustion, to  dream  of  her  lost  babe,  and  start  at  the  sound 
of  her  mother's  voice,  calling  as  of  old  for  "  Lizzy." 

When  Vinton  was  roused  from  his  stupor,  he  informed 
his  wife  of  many  things  which  he  had  hitherto  concealed 
from  her.  His  father  had  died  two  months  since,  and  to 
the  last  under  the  entire  control  of  his  wife,  had  executed 
a  will  leaving  his  son  a  mere  pittance.  Exasperated  at 
such  treatment,  Alfred  remonstrated  with  his  mother  on 
its  injustice,  and  swore  that  he  would  now  bring  his  wife 
forward,  and  introduce  her  to  his  mother's  friends.  On 
this  announcement  Mrs.  Vinton  had  a  severe  spasmodic 
attack,  from  which,  however,  she  fortunately  recovered,  in 


THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER.       295 

time  to  retreat  gracefully  before  the  mesalliance^^  bruited 
abroad,  and  rather  abruptly  took  her  departure  for  Europe 
•with  the  purpose  of  residing  in  future  with  "  my  daughter, 
the  countess !" 

And  now  Vinton's  career  was  daily  downward.  At 
length  disease  in  its  most  appalling  form  seized  upon  him. 
The  glaring  eye,  the  dilated  nostril,  and  the  compressed 
lip,  betrayed  the  madman  ! 

Ten  thousand  furies  were  haunting  him.  Ten  thousand 
fiends  were  glaring  from  the  ceiling — from  the  corners  of 
the  room — from  the  curtains  of  the  bed — and  their  eyes 
were  all  on  him !  Ten  thousand  loathsome  venomous 
things  were  crawling  on  the  floor  and  creeping  up  his  limbs, 
as  he  vainly  tried  to  dash  them  off. 

"  There — do  you  not  see  them — there — there,"  he  would 
exclaim,  pointing  in  affright  to  some  viewless  object. 
"Now  they  are  on  me — take  them  off — take  them  off — " 
and  then  he  would  sink  down  exhausted,  the  cold  perspi- 
ration starting  from  every  pore,  and  his  whole  frame  trem- 
bling with  the  struggle.  The  picture  is  too  painful,  and 
we  draw  a  veil  over  the  closing  scenes  in  the  life  of  Al- 
fred Vinton,  who,  before  he  had  completgd  his  twenty 
fourth  year,  died  the  wretched  victim  of  unbridled  and  de- 
basing vice. 


CHAPTEE  Y. 

IT  was  winter.  The  scene  of  anticipated  comfort,  of 
amusement  and  enjoyment  to  the  rich,  and  the  dreaded 
harbinger  of  want,  of  sorrow  and  suffering  to  the  poor.  A 


296  THE   FARMER'S  DAUGHTER. 

deep  snow  had  fallen,  rendering  the  streets  almost  impassa- 
ble, and  then  with  that  change  so  common  to  our  climate, 
the  sun  shone  brightly  in  the  heavens,  melting  the  white 
wreaths  which  lay  upon  the  house-tops,  and  projected  from 
the  eaves.  Again  came  change  ;  the  frost  king  held  forth 
his  sceptre,  and  the  waters  were  stayed  in  their  course. 
Onward  glided  his  troops,  hanging  glittering  spears  from 
the  eaves,  and  bristling  the  trees  with  polished  lances. 

A  keen,  nipping  wind  from  the  north  was  howling  down 
the  chimnies,  and  moaning  through  the  keyholes,  as  the 
inmates  of  a  comfortable  room  drew  closer  to  the  large 
coal  fire  that  was  burning  in  the  grate. 

"  I'm  glad  you  reached  here  yesterday,  cousin,"  said  a 
young  and  rather  pretty-looking  woman,  who  sat  rocking  a 
child  to  sleep.  "  I'm  glad  you  reached  here  yesterday,  for 
the  wind  is  blowing  a  perfect  hurricane,  and  I  fear  there 
will  be  bad  travelling  on  the  Sound  to-night.  How  long 
it  is  since  you  were  here  before !  nearly  two  years,  is  it 
not  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  quite  two  years ;  and  now  perhaps  I  am  here 
on  a  fruitless  errand." 

"  Have  you  heard  nothing  to  guide  you  in  your  search  ?" 

"  Not  much,  but  I  have  resolved  to  make  one  more 
effort,  and  if  I  fail,  will  be  constrained  to  regard  the  case 
as  hopeless."  A  low  knocking  at  the  street-door  drew  the 
attention  of  the  speakers. 

"  I'll  go,  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Edgar  to  his  wife  ;  "  I  won- 
der who  can  be  coming  here  on  such  a  bitter  night  ?" 

In  a  few  moments  Mr.  Edgar  re-entered  the  room. 
"  For  God's  sake,  Mary,  get  some  warm  clothing  for  that 
poor  woman  at  the  door,  she  is  in  a  perishing  condition, 
with  an  old  faded  thin  calico  dresSj  and  a  worn-out  shawl 


THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER.      297 

about  her  shoulders.  I  asked  her  repeatedly  to  come  in. 
but  she  refused.  Oh,  what  a  night  to  be  abroad  looking 
for  food  !» 

Mary  hastened  away,  and  as  quickly  returned  to  the  hall 
where  the  woman  was  standing.  A  heavy  woollen  shawl 
was  wrapped  round  the  shivering  creature,  and  a  thick 
dress,  together  with  some  other  useful  articles,  were  given 
to  her. 

"  G-od  in  heaven  bless  you  for  this,"  said  a  sweet,  gen- 
tle voice ;  "  think  it  not  strange  that  I  refuse  to  remain 
and  partake  of  your  hospitality,  my  child  is  hungry,  and 
your  husband  has  given  me  money  to  buy  it  food." 

"  Tell  me  where  you  live,  and  to-morrow  I  will  go  and 
see  you."  The  stranger  hesitated,  then  bursting  into 
tears  she  said,  "  Hard  and  pressing  want  has  driven  me 
to  this,  it  is  the  first  time  that  I  have  begged." 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing,"  said  Mary,  soothingly,  "  that  is 
nothing ;  neither  you  nor  your  child  must  want  while  so 
many  have  plenty.  Will  you  let  me  come  and  see  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  come  !  the  voice  of  kindness  sounds  strange- 
ly to  me — yes,  come  to ,"  and  telling  her  where 

she  lived  the  woman  hastened  away.  Mary  returned  to 
the  cheerful  fireside  with  her  heart  saddened  by  the  distress 
she  had  seen,  and  as  she  looked  at  her  own  child  lying  in 
its  warm  cradle,  she  thought  of  the  poor  woman  hurrying 
to  a  cheerless  home,  with  the  food  of  charity  to  feed  her 
little  one.  "  Oh,  God,  make  me  truly  thankful  for  thy 
blessings,"  was  her  inward  ejaculation,  u  and  give  me 
more  and  more  of  that  charity  which  freely  feeds  the  hun- 
gry and  clothes  the  naked." 

"  Poor  thing,"  said  Mr.  Edgar,  "  how  great  must  have 
been  her  destitution  !  I  am  afraid  she  has  asked  and  been 
13* 


298       THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER. 

refused  before  she  reached  here,  for  when  she  spoke  it  was 
timidly,  like  one  who  dreaded  being  repulsed." 

"  I  hope  she  did  not  go  next  door,  for  Mrs.  Crimpton 
makes  it  a  rule  never  to  give,  thinking  it  wrong  to  encour- 
age street  beggars." 

"  It  would  be  wrong,"  remarked  Mary's  cousin,  "  to 
encourage  the  idle  or  the  profligate,  but  you  can  generally 
tell  persons  of  such  character,  and  surely  that  is  a  narrow 
heart  which  will  refuse  all,  for  fear  of  sometimes  giving  to 
the  unworthy." 

"  Yes,  it  is  indeed  a  cold,  narrow-hearted  policy.  I 
would  rather  give  a  dozen  times  to  the  undeserving  than 
run  the  risk  of  refusing  one  who  was  in  want." 

"And  so  would  I,"  said  Mr.  Edgar,  between  whom  and 
his  wife  there  was  a  remarkable  uniformity  of  opinion. 
"  I  never  like  to  see  anybody  turned  away  without  relief. 
We  cannot,  it  is  true,  give  largely,  or  devise  great  schemes 
for  the  benefit  of  the  destitute,  but  if  each  individual  who 
has  the  ability  were  willing  to  do  something  for  the  poor 
who  come  to  his  door,  or  who  live  in  his  neighborhood,  the 
amount  of  suffering  would  be  infinitely  lessened.  While 
we  are  selfishly  debating  about  the  worthiness  or  unwor- 
thiness  of  an  object,  a  fellow- creature  may  be  starving." 

"  How  thin  and  feeble  that  poor  woman  looked  who  was 
here  to-night !  What  a  sin  it  would  have  been  to  have 
let  her  go  empty-handed.  To-morrow  I  must  see  what 
can  be  done  for  her." 

"  I  wish  I  could  go  with  you,  Mary  ;  sometimes  I  dread 
your  going  alone  into  strange  places  inhabited  only  by  want 
and  misery." 

"  Oh,  you  know  I've  grown  quite  a  heroine.  I  must 
acknowledge  that  at  first  my  heart  beat  somewhat  quickly, 


THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER.  299 

• 

when  venturing  up  an  alley,  or  descending  the  decayed 
steps  of  some  old  cellar,  or  when  clambering  the  dingy 
staircase  to  an  out-of-the-way,  queer  looking  room  in  a  gar 
ret.  But  I  have  never  met  with  any  mishap ;  on  the  contra 
ry,  I  have  always  been  received  with  the  greatest  kindness. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Edgar  put  up  some  delicacies  in 
covered  basket,  and  went  in  search  of  her  visitor  of  the 
preceding  night.  The  house  was  a  long  way  off,  and  in  a 
room  scarcely  containing  an  article  of  furniture,  with  a  few 
small  sticks  burning  on  the  hearth,  sat  a  female  picking  the 
hair  used  for  filling  cushions  and  mattresses.  In  one 
corner  stood  a  low  bed  on  which  a  child  lay  sleeping.  It 
was  in  truth  the  abode  of  poverty.  A  flush  overspread  the 
face  of  the  female  as  she  rose  on  the  entrance  of  Mrs. 
Edgar,  who  in  the  broad  day-light  saw  the  ravages  made 
by  woe  and  want  in  a  face  of  touching  and  child-like  beau- 
ty. There  was  an  embarrassing  pause  while  Mary  took  a 
seat  and  placed  her  basket  on  the  floor. 

"  How  kind  you  are  to  come  so  far  to  see  me.  But  for 
you,  last  night,  my  child  might  have  perished.  During  the 
day  I  had  not  tasted  food,  the  little  bread  I  had  was  not 
enough  to  satisfy  the  hunger  of  my  child,  and  we  were 
both  sinking  from  exhaustion;  another  such  day  and  night 
and  all  would  have  been  over." 

"  Oh,  if  we  had  only  known  that  you  were  suffering  here, 
we  might  have  done  something  to  assist  you  sooner;  but 
your  wants  must  be  attended  to  immediately." 

"  I  thank  you,  but  to-day  my  task  will  be  finished,  and 
I  shall  be  paid  for  it  when  it  is  done ;  yesterday  I  was  too 
weak  to  work — and  I  was  compelled  to  beg." 

Mary  learned  from  the  destitute  woman  that  she  was  a 
widow,  that  for  a  year  after  the  death  of  her  husband  she 


300  THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER. 

had  comfortably  supported  herself  and  her  infant ;  but  a 
long  sickness  drained  her  resources,  and  left  her  with 
hardly  strength  to  procure  the  necessaries  of  life.  Few 
were  willing  to  give  employment  to  one  who  bore  such  in- 
disputable marks  of  poverty,  and  it  was  only  through  the 
kindness  of  a  neighbor,  nearly  as  destitute  as  herself,  that 
she  procured  the  work  which  kept  her  from  starving. 

"  You  must  not  remain  here,"  said  Mrs.  Edgar,  "  this 
room  is  damp  and  unwholesome." 

The  poor  creature  looked  at  her  as  if  to  say,  "  Where 
else  can  I  go  ?"  Mrs.  Edgar  understood  the  look  and  re- 
plied to  it.  "  To-night  I  will  speak  with  my  husband,  and 
to-morrow  I  will  see  you  again.  There  ig  no  doubt  but 
better  accommodation  can  be  provided,  and  your  health 
will  be  benefited  by  the  change." 

"  God  reward  you  for  this  unexpected  kindness.  Yes- 
terday I  almost  despaired,  and  thought  that  my  child  and 
I  would  die  here  together — alone — perhaps  in  the  dark 
night,  without  one  friendly  eye  to  watch,  or  one  kind  word 
to  soothe.  Oh,  it  was  a  fearful  thought !" 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Edgar,  turning  away  to  hide 
her  tears,  "  to-morrow  I  will  be  here." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Now  cousin,"  said  Mary  laughing,  as  she  prepared 
to  pay  the  promised  visit,  "  I  leave  the  baby  in  your 
hands.  Rocking  the  cradle  will  be  rather  an  awkward 
employment  for  a  bachelor,  but  as  Rosy  sleeps  all  the 
evening,  you  will  only  have  to  put  your  foot  on  the  rocker 


THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER.  301 

occasionally — so — not  too  roughly  mind — but  softly — 
that  will  do,  and  it  will  not  interfere  with  your  reading  in 
the  least." 

Street  after  street  was  crossed  by  Mr.  Edgar  and  his 
wife,  until  they  reached  a  thickly-populated  neighborhood 
on  the  east  side  of  the  city. 

"  What  a  long  walk  you  had  yesterday,  Mary  ;  this  is  a 
part  of  the  ci'ty  I  have  seldom  seen  since,  with  my  school- 
mates, I  went  skating  on  Stuyvesant's  pond.  What  a 
great  change  a  few  years  have  made  !  Here,  where  there 
was  not  long  since  swamp  and  meadow,  are  streets  stretch- 
ing down  to  the  river,  and  filled  with  people." 

"  Yes,  there  is  indeed  a,,  change,  and  there  must  be  a 
great  deal  of  destitution  somewhere  in  this  neighborhood. 
When  I  passed  yesterday,  I  met  so  many  poor  women 
carrying  small  bundles  of  wood,  and  saw  so  many  little 
pinched  faces  of  half-clad  children,  that  my  heart  ached, 
and  I  longed  for  part  of  the  wealth  of  some  of  our  million- 
aires to  distribute  among  them." 

"  Not  growing  covetous,  Mary,  wishing  for  your  neigh- 
bor's goods,  eh  ?" 

"  I  do  not  wish  for  more  than  I  have,  to  apply  to  my 
own  use,  but  I  could  lay  out  thousands  for  the  benefit  of  the 
poor  who  are  suffering  from  the  inclemency  of  the  season !" 

:<  Have  I  not  heard  you  say,  that  you  would  like  a 
larger  house,  some  new  articles  of  furniture,  and  other 
thiags  which  we  have  not  at  present  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  confess  to  having  said  so,  but  I  do  not  crave 
those  things,  nor  would  I  hesitate  a  moment  between  giv- 
ing the  money  for  them,  or  bestowing  it  upon  the  poor." 

"  Why,  Mary,  I  doubt  not  there  are  many  who  would 
call  us  poor !" 


302  THE   FARMER'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  We  poor  !  with  everything  necessary  for  comfort  or 
convenience,  with  health,  with  happiness,  with  something 
to  spare  for  the  needy,  how  can  we  be  poor  ?" 

"  You  are  a  dear,  good  wife,  Mary,  and  few  women 
would  be  so  easily  satisfied  as  you  are.  Mrs.  Somebody's 
shawl,  or  dress,  or  bonnet,  would  be  a  subject  of  envy  to 
many,  and  the  poor  husband  would  be  teased  for  the  fine- 
ry when  perhaps  he  could  not  afford  it." 

"  Take  care,  Fred,  don't  praise  me  too  highly ;  you 
know  I  ani  an  admirer  of  pretty  things,  but  very  pretty 
things  are  generally  very  costly  ones,  and  prudence  whis- 
pers, '  That  is  too  extravagant,'  and  then  the  words  of  a 
master-spirit  come  to  my  aid  : 

'For  'tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich ; 

And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds, 

So  honor  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit.' 

Ah,  here  is  the  house  for  which  we  are  looking ;  what  a 
wretched  place  it  is  ?" 

On  entering  the  room  occupied  by  the  thin,  pale  crea- 
ture who  had  so  excited  their  compassion,  they  found  her 
seated  near  the  fire,  with  her  own  child  in  her  lap,  and  two 
other  shy,  half-starved  looking  little  ones  beside  her.  She 
was  dividing  among  them  part  of  the  contents  of  the  well- 
filled  basket  Mrs.  Edgar  had  left  the  day  before,  and,  as 
if  caught  in  a  wrong  act,  she  started  up,  and  attempted  an 
apology  for  giving  to  others  what  had  been  left  for  the 
supply  of  her  own  necessities.  The  children  drew  back 
abashed  and  left  the  room. 

"  You  did  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Edgar,  kindly,  ''  I  am 
only  sorry  that  you  had  not  more  to  spare  them." 

"  We  have  come,"  said  Mary,  "  to  make  some  arrange- 


THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER.  303 

ments,  if  you  will  permit  us  ;  Mr.  Edgar  thinks  it  would 
be  better  for  you  to  go  home  with  us,  at  present." 

"  Oh,  I  cannot,  I  have  nothing  wherewith  to  repay  your 
kindness ;  in  a  few  days  I  shall  be  stronger,  and  then  I 
can  resume  my  labor." 

"  That  will  never  do  ;  this  place  is  uncomfortable,  and 
your  employment  is  unhealthy;  nay,  wait  until  you  have 
heard  me.  I  want  some  one,  when  I  go  out,  to  whose  care 
I  could  trust  my  child,  and  then  sometimes  I  have  a  great 
deal  of  sewing  to  do,  and  I  am  sure  you  could  help  me." 

"  But  my  child,  I  cannot  part  from  my  child  !" 

"  Nor  shall  you ;  she  is  two  years  older  than  my  Rosy, 
and  will  make  a  nice  playfellow  for  her ;  don't  you  think 
so,  dear  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Edgar,  to  whom  his  wife  had  ap- 
pealed ;  "  and  I  think,  too,  that  both  mother  and  child  had 
better  go  with  us  to-night.  We  can  wait,"  said  he,  turn- 
ing to  the  pale  and  silent  woman,  who  looked  like  one 
awaking  from  a  dream,  "  we  can  wait  until  you  are  ready." 

"  You  will  not  want  any  of  these  things,"  said  Mrs. 
Edgar,  as  she  glanced  round  the  room,  "  and  they  may  as 
well  remain  where  they  are." 

"  My  neighbor,  Mrs.  Lambert,  will  be  glad  to  take 
them." 

"  Then,  by  all  means  let  her  have  them,  and  here  is 
some  money  that  she  may  buy  wood ;  you  told  me  she  had 
been  kind  to  you." 

The  furniture  and  money  were  given  to  Mrs.  Lambert; 
and  Mr.  Edgar,  taking  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  followed 
by  his  wife  and  their  intended  guest,  retraced  his  steps 
homeward. 

A  warm  and  cheerful  room  was  theirs,  and  very  pleas 


304  THE  FARMER'S   DAUGHTER. 

ant  and  comfortable  it  looked  to  the  sad  stranger,  as  Mrs. 
Edgar,  with  her  own  friendly  hands,  untied  the  hood,  and 
made  her  sit  down  in  a  softly-cushioned  chair  near  the  fire. 

"  And  so  you  did  not  wake  Rosy  ;  well,  you  are  an  ex- 
cellent nurse,"  said  Mrs.  Edgar  to  her  cousin,  who,  from 
motives  of  delicacy,  had  averted  his  face  when  the  stranger 
entered;  "  see,  here  is  another  little  one,  and  you  may 
take  charge  of  her,  while  I  go  and  see  about  supper." 

The  cousin  turned  to  look  at  the  child,  his  eyes  met 
those  of  its  mother  ;  a  sharp,  shrill  cry  of  pain  broke  from 
her  lips,  and  she  fainted.  He  was  at  her  side  in  an  in- 
stant. "  Oh,  most  Merciful  One  ! — Lizzy  !  Lizzy  !  Lizzy  !! 
Alas,  it  was  indeed  Lizzy,  and  it  was  now  Morris  Wilson 
first  saw  her  face  since  the  night  she  had  refused  his  hand  ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SOON  after  her  husband's  death,  Elizabeth  Vinton  found 
that  nothing  in  the  house  where  she  lived  was  hers. 
Creditor  after  creditor  came  and  claimed  their  share,  till 
all  was  gone.  She  was  alone,  without  a  single  earthly 
friend  to  whom  she  could  look  for  assistance  or  advice. 
Two  or  three  times  had  her  husband,  while  living,  taken 
letters  from  her  to  send  to  her  parents,  but  no  answer 
came ;  they  must  have  cast  her  off  forever.  Should  she 
go  to  them  now  ?  Would  they  receive  her  ?  Afraid  and 
ashamed  to  make  the  trial,  she  sold  whatever  available  ar- 
ticles belonged  to  her,  and  left  Boston  for  New  York, 
wishing  for  nothing  but  to  hide  her  sorrow  until  death 


THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER.  305 

came  to  her  relief.  But  new  duties  called  forth  her  ener- 
gies, and  when  her  little  girl  looked  up  and  smiled,  she 
shrunk  from  the  thought  of  death,  and  prayed  for  life  that 
she  might  be  a  protector  to  her  child. 

Elizabeth's  only  resource  was  her  needle  ;  but  her  health, 
already  shattered  by  the  sorrows  through  which  she  had 
passed,  soon  gave  way  under  the  close  confinement  to 
which  she  was  subjected  ;  and  on  her  recovery  from  sick- 
ness she  found  herself  sunk  in  the  depths  of  poverty ! 
Still  she  worked  on,  at  whatever  employment  could  be  ob- 
tained, forgetting  her  own  wants  in  her  endeavor  to  sup- 
ply those  pf  her  child.  At  last,  when  unable  to  complete 
her  task,  compelled  by  hunger,  she  wandered  abroad  in 
search  of  food,  and  after  finding  door  after  door  shut 
against  her  by  some  pampered  menial  or  heartless  mistress, 
then,  when  ready  to  sink  with  exhaustion,  she  met  with 
the  kind,  compassionate  family  of  the  Edgars. 

"  How  providential  it  was  that  you  came  to  our  house," 
said  Mrs.  Edgar  to  Elizabeth,  on  the  morning  after  the 
latter  had  met  with  Morris.  "  Only  to  think,  how  long 
he  has  been  in  search  of  you,  and  this  was  to  be  his  last 
effort.  What  a  happy  circumstance  that  you  came  here !" 

"  And  Morris  told  you  that  my  parents  never  received 
my  letters  ?" 

"  He  did ;  and  that  your  father  had  been  in  Boston 
seeking  for  you.  The  first  time,  the  old  man  was  rudely 
repulsed  from  Mrs.  Vinton's,  and  on  his  second  visit  that 
lady  had  gone  to  Europe,  and  no  one  could  or  would  tell 
him  anything  about  her  son.  Once  again  he  tried  to  find 
you,  and  some  person  informed  him  that  your  husband 
was  dead,  and  that  you  had  left  Boston  and  gone  no  one 
knew  whither."  • 


306  THE   FARMER'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  My  dear  father !  and  while  he  was  seeking  bis  un- 
worthy child,  she  was  fleeing  from  him,  a  prey  to  dark  and 
sinful  thoughts  !" 

"  This  is  the  third  time  my  cousin  has  been  in  New 
York  since  your  father  despaired  of  ever  seeing  you 
again.  Something  led  Morris  to  believe  you  were  here, 
and  I  have  known  him  to  walk  the  streets  for  days  togeth- 
er, looking  at  every  female  who  at  all  resembled  you. 
Poor  fellow  !  how  faithful-hearted  he  has  been  !" 

A  sudden  expression  of  pain  passing  over  the  face  of 
her  guest,  warned  Mrs.  Edgar  to  refrain  from  any  farther 
mention  of  the  subject.  t 

"  I  will  see  Mr.  Wilson  to-day ;  last  night  it  was  im- 
possible for  me  to  speak  to  him.  Oh,  I  have  so  much  to 
ask — my  father,  my  mother,  my  sister — and  he  says  they 
are  all  well  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  they  are  all  well,  and  their  only  desire  is  to 
have  you  with  them  once  more  ;  they  would  then  be  hap- 
py!" 

"  Ah,  I  have  not  deserved  so  great  a  kindness,  I  desert- 
ed them  when  I  knew  their  hearts  were  bound  up  in  me. 
But  I  have  suffered,  how  deeply  none  save  Heaven  can 
ever  know !" 

Painful  to  both  was  the  meeting  between  Morris  Wilson 
and  Elizabeth  Vinton.  The  past  came  up  before  each 
with  startling  vividness.  The  night  they  had  last  met 
under  the  old  porch,  her  refusal,  his  grief,  all  came  back ; 
and  the  remembrance  to  her  was  fraught  with  agony  and 
shame — to  him,  with  love,  and  sorrow,  and  regret. 

"  Can  you  be  ready  to  go  home  next  week,  Mrs.  Vinton  ? 
I  will  write  to  your  parents  and  prepare  them  for  your  re- 
turn." 


THE    FARMER'S    DAUGHTER.  307 

"  Go  home !  how  strangely  those  words  sound  to  one 
who  has  been  so  long  without  a  home.  Will  they  receive 
me,  Mor Mr.  Wilson,  are  you  sure  they  will  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  they  will  be  but  too  glad  to  do  so.  You  do 
not  think  they  could  forsake  you,  Lizzy !" 

Morris  spoke  in  his  old,  warm  manner,  and  Elizabeth 
tried  to  believe  that  it  would  be  as  he  said,  but  her  own 
unworthiness  rose  up  before  her,  and  the  dark  shadow 
dimmed  her  joy. 

In  a  few  days,  Morris  received  an  answer  to  the  letter 
he  had  sent  Mr.  Greene,  and  when  Elizabeth  read  the  old 
man's  thanfcs  to  Heaven  for  the  recovery  of  his  child,  and 
how  impatiently  they  all  wished  for  her  return,  she  no 
longer  hesitated,  but  taking  an  affectionate  leave  of  her 
lately-found  friends,  went  with  Morris  Wilson  to  her  child- 
hood's home. 

Clasped  to  the  breast  of  parents  and  sister,  feeling  their 
warm  tears  upon  her  brow  and  cheek,  seeing  her  child 
fondled  and  caressed,  Elizabeth  could  no  longer  doubt ; 
ah,  they  loved  her  still !  Like  the  prodigal,  she  had  re- 
turned to  her  father's  house,  and  had  been  met  with  bless- 
ings instead  of  reproaches — open  arms  to  receive  her — 
loving  words  to  comfort  her,  the  best  of  everything  was 
hers.  Again  the  dear  name  of  Lizzy  fell  from  familiar 
lips,  and  the  formal  Elizabeth,  assumed  at  her  ill-starred 
marriage,  was  forgotten,  and  with  it  was  tacitly  buried  all 
allusion  to  the  past. 

Morris  Wilson  again  became  a  visitor  at  farmer  Greene's. 
He  had  always  something  to  bring  little  Lizzy,  and  the 
child  grew  so  fond  of  him,  that  she  would  watch  for  his 
coming,  and  run  to  meet  him,  that  he  might  toss  her  in 
his  arms,  or  dance  her  upon  his  knee.  Her  gleeful  laugh, 


30$ 


THE      FARMER    8     DAUGHTER. 


her  shining  curls,  her  winning,  mirthful  ways,  all  reminded 
him  of  long  ago.  She  was  Lizzy's  child — and  as  Morris 
pressed  her  closely  to  his  heart,  he  knew  he  doubly  loved 
her,  for  her  mother's  sake  ! 

"  And  so  Hetty  and  James  Jansen  are  to  be  married, 
your  mother  tells  me,  Lizzy  ?" 

"  Yes ;  Hetty  would  not  give  her  consent  until  I  was 
found  !  How  grateful  we  all  are  to  you,  Morris." 

How  those  simple  words  thrilled  the  heart  of  Morris 
Wilson  and  overpowered  him  with  memories  of  by-gone 
times  !  and  how  nervously  and  confusedly  he  whispered, 
"  Grateful,  Lizzy  !  can  you  never  be  more  than  grateful  ? 
Lizzy,  dearest,  speak  to  me — one  word,  Lizzy !" 

They  were  sitting  under  the  old  porch,  the  moonlight 
came  shimmering  through  the  woodbine,  and  revealed  to 
Morris  that  Lizzy  was  in  tears. 

"  Oh,  this  is  too  painful,  Morris !  I  hoped  you  had 
overcome  your  feelings  of  affection  for  me  !  I  am  but  a 
blighted  flower,  Morris  !  Rude  were  the  storms  through 
which  I  passed,  and  the  seeds  of  decay  are  here — nay,  look 
not  doubtingly,  none  know  the  languor,  the  exhaustion, 
against  which  I  daily  strive.  Speak  not  again  on  this  sub- 
ject, Morris ;  it  but  adds  an  additional  pang  to  a  heart 
already  sorely  wounded.  Once  I  asked  you  to  be  my 
friend ;  you  will  not  deny  me  now,  Morris  ?" 

"  I  can  deny  you  nothing,  Lizzy,  only  speak  not  so 
mournfully ;  time,  quiet,  will  restore  you — you  are  too 
young  to  give  up  all  hope  !" 

"  Ah,  not  too  young.  If  time  is  counted  by  suffering, 
what  an  age  I  have  lived  during  the  last  five  years  !  My 
dear  parents,  on  them  the  blow  will  fall  most  heavily !  and 
my  child — 0  God  !  my  darling  child !" 


THE    FARMER'S    DAUGHTER.  309 

"  Will  you  trust  her  with  me,  Lizzy  ?  I  already  love 
her  as  if  she  were  my  own !" 

A  pressure  of  Lizzy's  wasted  hand  was  the  only  answer, 
and  as  Morris  looked  earnestly  upon  her,  he  wondered  that 
he  had  not  sooner  read  in  the  pale,  sad  face,  and  mournful 
eyes,  that  the  heart  of  the  only  woman  he  ever  loved,  was 
broken ! 


The  bustle  of  preparation  for  Hetty's  wedding,  and  the 
excitement  attendant  upon  it,  had  died  away.  Quiet  once 
more  reigned  at  farmer  Greene's.  Ah,  it  was  a  fearful 
quiet ! 

In  her  own  chamber,  once  so  bright  and  sunny,  lies  Lizzy. 
The  room  is  darkened,  and  over  it  hangs  a  stillness  so  deep 
that  you  can  listen  to  the  throbbing  of  the  heart,  and  count 
its  beating.  The  stifled  sob,  the  agonizing  groan  of  a  man, 
breaks  the  unearthly  gloom.  It  is  Morris  Wilson.  He 
has  stolen  from  the  weeping  friends  below,  and  is  kneeling 
beside  Lizzy's  coffin ! 

She  withered  like  the  flowers  when  the  storm  has  crushed 
them ;  and  the  one  error  of  her  life,  which  brought  with 
it  sorrow,  and  shame,  and  suffering,  was  mournfully  ex- 
piated ! 


CHAPTER  I 

,  I  wish  you  would  assist  me  with  this  sewing; 

VJ  Miss  Grey  was  not  well  yesterday,  and  I  fear  will 
not  be  able  to  come  here  to-day." 

"  And  do  you  wish  me  to  take  her  place,  and  turn  seam- 
stress? No,  no,  aunt  Letty,  I  dislike  sewing;  plain  sew-, 
ing  is  horribly  vulgar,  and  besides  I've  no  time ;  after  tak- 
ing my  Italian  lesson  I  will  finish  one  more  row  on  my 
worsted  netting,  and  then  I  must  dress  for  a  walk.  I  don't 
know  why  Mary  Grey  has  those  everlasting  headaches-; 
people  who  live  by  their  needle  should  act  differently ;  she 
knows  ma'  will  be  disappointed  if  she  is  not  here,  and  I 
think  she  might  have  exerted  herself  a  little  to  oblige 
ma'." 

"  You  cannot  be  so  unreasonable  as  to  wish  her  to  work 
when  she  is  unable  to  do  so." 

"  Unable  I  I  believe  half  the  time  she  is  only  putting  on 
airs ;  and  it  is  pa's  fault,  for  he  treats  Mary  as  if  she  were 
an  equal,  instead  of  an  old  maid  who  is  paid  by  the  day 
for  plain  sewing !" 

"  Clara !  Clara !  I  am  grieved  to  hear  you  talk  so  un- 
feelingly. From  your  cradle  you  have  been  surrounded 


THE     SEAMSTRESS.  311 

by  luxury,  every  wish  has  been  gratified,  and  just  in  pro- 
portion as  you  have  been  removed  above  the  toiling  thou- 
sands around  you,  in  just  such  proportion  you  have  become 
pampered  and  selfish." 

"  I  wish  no  lectures,  aunt  Letty.  Your  sympathy  for 
the  single  sisterhood  is  not  to  be  wondered  at ;  old  maids 
— pshaw !" 

The  young  lady  took  her  lesson,  finished  her  row  of  net- 
ting, dressed  herself  with  extreme  care,  and  then  went  out 
to  walk. 

Clara's  mother  was  out  of  town,  and  the  duty  of  super- 
intending the  household  concerns  devolved  wholly  on  aunt 
Letty.  Indeed,  this  was  no  rare  occurrence,  for  her  sister- 
in-law,  when  in  town,  was  obliged  to  receive  and  return  so 
many  visits,  that — "  Letty,  will  yo^i  give  orders  to  cook 
this  morning  ? — Letty,  will  you  help  Miss  Grey  with  this 
sewing  ? — Letty,  will  you  stay  in  the  nursery  until  the  baby 
goes  to  sleep,  the  little  thing  does  not  like  nurse,  and  I  am 
engaged  for  the  evening  ?" — requests  that  had  first  been 
made  in  a  gentle,  insinuating  manner,  as  if  a  favor  would 
be  granted  if  aunt  Letty  complied  with  them,  were  now 
equal  to  commands,  when  uttered  by  Mrs.  Alexander 
Boardman  to  her  husband's  sister. 

While  thoughts  of  her  own  happy  girlhood  were  throng- 
ing round  her  heart,  aunt  Letty  felt  that  she  was  indeed 
an  old  maid,  as  with  tears  blinding  her  eyes  she  sat  down 
alone  to  "  stitch,  stitch,  stitch,"  for  her  brother's  wife. 

From  the  death  of  her  aged  mother,  Letitia  Boardman 
had  resided  with  her  only  brother,  a  wealthy  merchant. 
Affectionately  attached  to  his  sister,  Mr.  Boardman  al- 
ways wished  her  to  act  as  if  his  house  were  her  own,  and, 
daily  engaged  in  business,  he  knew  not  but  his  dear  Letty 


312  THE      SEAMSTRESS. 

was  happy  as  he  desired  she  should  be.  Of  the  many  ser- 
vices looked  for  as  a  matter  of  course  by  Mrs.  Boardman, 
and  exacted  as  a  right  from  the  "  old  maid"  by  Clara,  he 
knew  nothing,  for  his  sister  would  not  stoop  to  complain, 
nor  did  she  wish  to  wound  his  feelings  by  showing  him 
how  matters  really  stood. 

"  Is  not  Miss  Grey  here  to-day  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Board- 
man of  his  sister,  when  they  sat  down  to  dinner,  "  I  thought 
you  told  me  she  would  remain  for  two  weeks,  Letty  ?" 

"  She  was  not  well  yesterday,  and  was  obliged  to  go 
home,  and  I  fear  is  no  better  to-day,  or  she  would  have  been 
here." 

"  Poor  thing,"  said  Mr.  Boardman,  compassionately, 
"  You  must  go  and  see  her  after  dinner,  Clara;  perhaps 
she  wants  something  that  we  can  send  her." 

Clara  looked  up  with  a  flushed  face.  "  Go  and  see  her ; 
go  and  see  Mary  Grey,  pa'  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  I  said ;  you  look  surprised — what  do 
you  mean,  Clara  ?" 

"  Nothing — but — I  think  Duncan  might  go  instead  of 
me." 

"  But  I  wish  you  to  go,  and  not  your  maid." 

"  Well>  pa',  this  is  so  strange  ?  I  don't  know  where  Mary 
lives,  and  it  is  certainly  more  fitting  that  Duncan  should 
visit  our  seamstress,  than  that  I  should  go  trudging  into 
some  out-of-the-way  street  to  look  after  her." 

Mr.  Boardman  gave  one  long,  searching  look  at  his 
daughter,  and,  without  replying  to  her,  he  turned  to  hig 
sister. 

"  Letty,  dear,  you  will  see  Miss  Grey  this  afternoon  ;  if 
she  requires  medical  advice  let  Dr.  Walker  go  to  her  im- 
mediately. When  I  return  in  the  evening  we  will  consult 


THE      SEAMSTRESS.  313 

together  how  we  may  best  benefit  her  without  wounding 
her  delicacy  of  feeling." 

Pained  by  Clara's  exhibition  of  unfeeling  pride,  Mr. 
Boardman  found  that  he  had  committed  a  great  error;  he 
had  left  his  daughter's  education,  and  her  moral  training, 
wholly  to  her  mother,  and  to  teachers  of  her  mother's  se- 
lection, without  pausing  to  think  whether  that  mother  was 
fitted  for  the  holy  duty  entrusted  to  her.  He  resolved  in 
future  to  watch  more  carefully  the  temper  and  the  habits 
of  his  child,  while  he  comforted  himself  with  the  thought 
that  Clara  was  barely  seventeen,  and  that  it  would  be  easy 
to  uproot  from  her  young  heart  the  tares  of  pride  and  sel 
fishness. 

"  Well,  Letty,  have  you  seen  Miss  Grey  ?' 

"  Yes,  she  was  quite  ill  when  I  went  there,  and  there  was 
no  one  with  her  but  her  nephew.  I  sent  him  for  the  doc- 
tor, who  administered  some  medicine,  and  when  I  came 
home  I  left  Betty  to  stay  with  Miss  Grey  until  to-morrow." 

"  You  did  quite  right,  quite  right,  dear  sister,  and  now,  if 
you  will  step  into  the  store-room  you  will  find  some  fresh 
fruit  I  ordered  while  you  were  out ;  select  the  finest  and 
send  it  to  Miss  Grey." 

As  her  aunt  left  the  room,  Clara  curled  her  lip  con- 
temptuously, and  wondered  why  her  father  took  so  much 
interest  in  the  seamstress,  the  stiff  old  maid !  Mr.  Board- 
man saw  the  look,  and  with  some  severity  he  said :  "  Clara, 
I  am  surprised  at  the  manner  in  which  you  conduct  your- 
self when  Miss  Grey  is  spoken  of,  and  I  wonder  that  you 
have  so  little  consideration  for  the  feelings  of  others,  I 
might  say,  so  little  good  breeding,  as  to  speak  of  unmarried 
women  by  the  sneering  title  of  l  old  maids,'  in  the  presence 
of  your  aunt  Letty." 

14 


314  THE      SEAMSTRESS. 

"  Oh,  pa',  I  can't  bear  them.  They  are  all  so  queer  and 
fidgetty,  and  they  dress  so  oddly,  their  clothes  are  never  in 
the  present  fashion,  but  look  as  if  made  ten  years  ago  at 
least.  What  a  fright  Miss  Grey  is  sometimes,  with  her 
old-fashioned  white  cambric  gown,  and  her  hair  frizzed,  and 
that  everlasting  gold  locket,  and  her  stately  manner,  as  if 
she  fancied  herself  some  grand  lady,  instead  of  what  she 
is,  a  mere  sewing  woman,  hired  at  so  much  a  day." 

"  Your  prejudices  are  unreasonable,  Clara ;  there  are 
quite  as  many  married  women  who  are  '  queer  and  fidgetty,' 
as  you  term  it,  quite  as  many  who  '  dress  oddly,'  as  there 
are  of  women  who  remain  single.  The  mere  fact  of  her 
being  married,  is  certainly  no  proof  of  a  woman's  superi- 
ority over  those  of  her  sex  who  do  not  enter  into  the  mar- 
riage state,  for  it  is  as  undeniable  that  many  common-place, 
silly  women,  have  husbands,  as  that  many  richly-gifted,  es- 
timable women,  have  none.  If  we  could  look  into  the  past 
history  of  those  whom  you  call  '  old  maids,'  what  lessons 
of  self-sacrifice  might  we  not  read  there.  The  heart  of  one 
lies  in  the  grave  of  the  betrothed  of  her  youth — that  of 
another  gave  its  all  of  love  to  one  unworthy  of  the  gift — 
another  still,  has  laid  the  fondest  wishes  of  her  life  upon 
the  altar  of  duty." 

"  Oh,  pa',  you  find  excuses  for  them  because  aunt  Letty 
is  one ;  but  they  are  all  disagreeable,  I  don't  believe  ono 
of  them  ever  had  an  offer." 

Mr.  Boardman  WE.S  vexed  at  the  flippant  tone  of  his 
daughter.  He  had  been  proud  of  her  personal  appearance 
proud  of  her  graceful  manner,  proud  of  her  accomplish 
ments,  without  knowing  whether  the  cultivation  of  hex 
mind  kept  pace  with  those  outward  adornments. 

"  Clara,"  said  he,  "  I  have  a  story  to  tell  you,  which  may 


THE     SEAMSTRESS.  315 

serve  to  make  you  less  unjust  in  your  opinions  ;  come  and 
sit  beside  me.  You  know  the  beautiful  house  that  you 
have  admired  so  often,  and  that  I  promised  I  would  tell 
you  all  about  some  day  or  other." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know — Mrs.  Dashington  lives  in  it  now." 
"  That  house  was  once  owned  by  a  gentleman  possessing 
a  large  capital,  and  having  business  transactions  with  many 
of  the  most  influential  houses  abroad.  His  numerous  ves- 
sels traded  to  foreign  parts,  bringing  him  profitable  re- 
turns on  their  various  cargoes,  and  he  was,  in  the  fullest 
sense  of  the  term,  a  prosperous  man.  His  family  consisted 
of  a  wife,  and  two  daughters.  The  sisters  had  in  all  re- 
spects equally  shared  the  love  of  their  parents.  They 
were  both  beautiful,  both  highly  accomplished,  but  their 
characters  and  dispositions  were  as  opposite  as  their  per- 
sons. The  elder  of  the  two  was  fair  and  delicate,  rather 
petite,  and  of  mild  and  gentle  manners, 

'  A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone, 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye.' 

"  The  younger  was  of  a  proud  and  commanding  figure. 
Her  rich  tresses  were  folded  smoothly  on  her  forehead, 
and  gathered  in  a  low  knot  on  her  beautifully-formed  head, 
while  her  dark  eyes  flashed  with  the  light  of  a  haughty 
and  unsubdued  spirit.  They  were  surrounded  by  all  the 
elegancies  of  life,  caressed  by  a  large  circle  of  gay  friends, 
and  sought  in  marriage  by  many  who  knew  they  were  to 
inherit  large  fortunes. 

"  Among  the  occasional  visitors  at  the  hospitable  house 
of  the  merchant,  was  a  young  clergyman,  who  had  charge 
of  a  country  parish,  with  the  enviable  salary  of  five  hundred 
dollars  a  year.  A  man  of  polished  manners  and  refined 


316  THE     SEAMSTRESS. 

mind,  he  found  much  that  was  congenial  in  the  society  of 
the  merchant's  elder  daughter,  nor  could  he  help  observing 
that  she  regarded  him  with  kindness.  But  he  never 
dreamed  that  she  could  be  his  wife,  and  when  he  found 
that  love  had  stolen  into  the  place  of  friendship,  he  absent- 
ed himself  from  the  house,  and  strove,  in  the  strict  dis 
charge  of  his  duties,  to  conquer  a  passion  that  to  him  ap- 
peared hopeless. 

"  The  last  man  to  whom  the  merchant  would  have  given 
his  younger  daughter,  was  the  very  one  she  had  chosen  for 
a  husband,  and  no  entreaties  of  her  parents  could  induce 
her  to  pause  ere  she  gave  her  final  decision.  With  the 
same  obstinacy  which  had  always  appeared  when  her  pleas- 
ure or  her  will  were  to  be  gratified,  Adelaide  assured  her 
parents  that  she  would  never  marry  any  other  than  Vin- 
cent Barckley.  Fearing  that  his  daughter  might  be  mar- 
ried clandestinely,  the  merchant  unwillingly  gave  his  con- 
sent to  the  union. 

"  So  long  as  Mary  hoped  to  influence  her  sister,  and  de- 
ter her  from  committing  an  act  which  she  feared  would 
bring  sorrow  and  anguish  to  their  happy  home,  so  long  did 
she  plead  and  entreat  Adelaide  to  wait  one  year  before 
she  wedded.  But  when  Mary  found  her  sister's  resolution 
was  not  to  be  shaken,  then  in  her  own  loving  hopeful  man- 
ner did  she  strive  to  smooth  all  difficulties,  and  endeavor 
to  persuade  her  parents  and  herself  that  Vincent  Barckley 
might  be  a  better  man  than  the  world  thought  lie  was. 
Mary  could  not  deny  that  there  was  a  charm  and  elegance 
in  his  manner  well  calculated  to  fascinate  a  gay  and 
thoughtless  girl ;  but  to  her  it  seemed  false  and  hollow; 
there  was  no  heart  warmth,  none  of  that  open  manliness 
of  character  which  wins  upon  a  nature  frank  and  confiding 


THE    SEAMSTRESS.  317 

as  its  own.  She  had  never  liked  him  from  the  first. 
There  was  that  involuntary  repulsion,  for  which  she  could 
not  account,  and  which  it  was  impossible  to  overcome. 
She  strove  to  reason  on  the  subject,  but  feeling  was  strong- 
er than  reason.  She  blamed  herself  for  being  prejudiced 
and  uncharitable,  and  now  that  Barckley  was  the  affianced 
of  her  sister,  Mary  tried  more  than  ever  to  get  rid  of  her 
distrust. 

"  The  wedding  was  what  is  called  a  '  brilliant  affair.' 
By  the  guests,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barckley  were  declared  to  be 
formed  for  each  other,  and,  judging  from  outward  appear- 
ances, there  seemed  to  be  nothing  wanting  to  complete 
their  happiness.  Soon  after  their  marriage,  Adelaide  and 
her  husband  went  abroad,  and  passed  their  first  winter  to- 
gether in  the  giddy  vortex  of  Parisian  gaiety. 

"  The  admiration  excited  by  her  grace  and  beauty,  where 
there  were  so  many  graceful  and  beautiful  women  to  con- 
test the  palm,  gave  a  still  greater  impetus  to  her  vanity, 
and  the  richest  dresses,  and  most  costly  ornaments,  were 
ordered  without  any  regard  to  outlay,  that  she  might  retain 
the  epithet  of  queenly,'  bestowed  upon  her  by  her  admirers. 

"  She  enjoyed  but  little  of  her  husband's  society,  as  it 
would  have  been  in  shocking  bad  taste  for  a  husband  to 
be  found,  in  a  fashionable  circle,  paying  any  little  civilities 
or  attentions  to  his  wife,  and  so  she  was  frequently  left  to 
the  charge  of  Monsieur  De  L'Orme.  Mr.  Barckley  was, 
of  course,  at  liberty  to  lavish  his  smiles  and  his  politeness 
on  any  lady  who,  for  the  moment,  he  thought  the  most 
agreeable,  and  in  one  successive  round  of  amusements  was 
spent  the  first  winter  in  Paris. 

"  In  the  spring,  Adelaide  wrote  to  her  parents  that  her 
husband  and  herself  had  decided  on  staying  abroad  another 


318  THE     SEAMSTRESS. 

year.  They  were  to  spend  the  summer  months  at  Baden, 
and  would  return  in  winter  to  the  French  capital.  The 
letter  closed  with  a  request  for  a  large  remittance,  as  Mr. 
Barckley  had  been  disappointed  in  receiving  the  money 
he  expected  from  his  agent  at  home.  The  remittance  was 
sent,  and  her  father  wrote  kindly,  yet  firmly,  of  the  neces- 
sity there  was  for  prudence  and  economy.  The  only  re- 
mark made  by  Adelaide,  as  she  put  down  her  father's  let- 
ter, was,  '  Economy !  what  a  vulgar  word,  it  is  tantamount 
to  parsimony  !'  Once  more  in  the  gay  circle  of  her  ad- 
mirers, Adelaide  strove  to  forget  the  many  unpleasant 
scenes  with  her  husband,  which  had  occurred  during  their 
late  tour,  when  they  had  been  obliged,  in  travelling,  to 
spend  not  only  hours  but  days  together.  Too  proud  to  let 
the  world  suspect  she  was  unhappy,  no  voice  was  more 
cheerful  than  hers,  and  no  smile  was  brighter,  as  she  re- 
turned the  salutations  that  greeted  her  re-appearance. 
She  had  married  Vincent  Barckley  wilfully,  and  what  had 
been  his  great  attraction?  She  blushed  as  her  heart 
answered  the  question.  The  attraction  had  been,  not  his 
gifted  intellect,  not  his  moral  worth ;  but  his  fine  person, 
and  his  graceful  manners. 

"  Alas,  alas,  how  beauty  of  person  becomes  positive  de- 
formity, when  it  is  found  to  be  but  the  covering  for  a  cor- 
rupt mind.  Admiration  of  the  beautiful,  love  for  it  in 
every  variety  in  which  it  is  presented  to  us,  seems  to  be 
an  innate  feeling  of  our  nature.  We  gaze  on  a  lovely  pic- 
ture, or  a  noble  statue,  with  emotions  akin  to  reverence ; 
and  when  we  look  admiringly  on  the  living  beauty  of  one 
made  in  the  likeness  of  God,  how  are  we  shocked  to  dis- 
cover that  the  beauty  is  that  of  Lucifer,  fair  as  the  morn- 
ing without,  and  dark  as  the  midnight  within. 


THE     SEAMSTRESS.  319 

i;  Although  Adelaide  was  too  proud  to  betray  her  mi- 
happiness  to  the  world,  the  world  is  generally  clear-sighted 
enough  in  discovering  faults,  follies,  and  misfortunes,  and 
equally  loud-mouthed  in  noising  them  abroad. 

"  Nor  was  there  wanting  matter  for  the  tongue  of  scan- 
dal, when  it  was  known  that  Mr.  Barckley  had  eloped  with 
the  wife  of  a  young  officer  who  had  been  his  most  intimate 
friend,  and  who  had  frequently  loaned  him  money  to  pay 
his  debts  of  Iwnor  at  Frescati's. 

"  Adelaide  was  humbled.  She  had  been  wounded,  not 
in  her  affections,  but  in  her  pride.  Her  haughty  spirit 
would  have  borne  much  could  it  have  been  concealed ;  but 
that  her  friends  should  see  another  preferred  by  her  hus- 
band to  herself,  that  they  should  know  she  had  no  power 
over  his  heart,  this  was  indeed  humiliating  ! 

"  And  what  would  be  said  at  home  ?  How  could  she 
who  had  left  it  an  envied  bride  return  a  deserted  wife  ! 
And  how  could  she  remain  abroad  without  the  means  of 
living  as  she  had  done  hitherto  ?  In  the  last  letters  from 
her  sister,  Mary  had  plainly  spoken  of  embarrassment  in 
her  father's  affairs,  and  begged  her  to  be  more  prudent. 

"  In  this  state  of  suffering,  and  while  uncertain  how  to 
act,  Adelaide  was  forced  to  listen  to  words  of  condolence 
from  women  who  had  envied  her  superior  attractions,  and 
who  were  secretly  glad  of  her  misfortunes. 

"  From  De  L'Orme  she  met  with  the  kindest  sympathy. 
His  manner  toward  her  was  gentle,  and  reserved,  as  it 
fearful  of  wounding  her  delicacy  by  obtruding  himself  upon 
her  notice.  Her  every  look  was  studied,  her  every  wish 
anticipated,  and  feeling  the  need  of  some  friend  on  whom 
she  might  rely,  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  his  kindness. 

"  In  less  than  a  month  after  being  deserted  by  her  bus- 


320  THE     SEAMSTRESS. 

band,  another  letter  from  home  told  of  the  dangerous  ill- 
ness of  her  mother,  and  that  her  father  was  on  the  eve  of 
bankruptcy.  The  shock  was  great. 

"  De  L'Orme  was  with  her  when  she  received  the  letter, 
and  her  agitation  on  reading  it  was  too  great  to  be  con- 
cealed. In  a  subdued  and  earnest  tone  he  begged  to  know 
the  cause  of  her  distress.  Was  he  not  her  friend  ?  Was 
he  not  entitled  to  her  confidence  ?  Glad  of  sympathy,  and 
regarding  him  as  a  man  of  true  honor,  she  told  him  the 
state  of  her  father's  affairs,  and  her  own  perplexity.  De 
L'Orme  listened  with  deep  and  quiet  attention,  and  when 
Adelaide  paused,  he  sat  silent  for  some  minutes,  without 
offering  either  condolence  or  advice.  Then,  suddenly,  as 
if  waking  from  a  reverie,  he  said  in  an  agitated  tone,  while 
he  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  softly  in  his  own,  '  My 
dear  Mrs.  Barckley,  will  you  confide  in  me  ?' 

"  '  There  is  no  one  else  in  whom  I  can  confide.  0,  De 
L'Orme,  among  all  the  hollow  smiles  that  day  after  day 
are  given  me,  all  the  hollow  professions  to  which  I  listen 
from  those  who  triumph  in  my  misery,  how  thankful  is  my 
poor  heart  that  in  this  strange  land  I  have  still  one 
friend.' 

" '  Adelaide,  dearest,'  said  De  L'Orme,  passionately, 
'  you  have  spoken  truly — you  have  one  friend — a  friend 
who  loves  you  —  who  has  long  loved  you  —  who  will 
protect  you  while  he  has  life — shall  it  not  be  so,  my 
Adelaide  ?' 

"  Starting  as  if  stung  by  a  serpent,  Adelaide  sprang 
from  her  seat,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  room  without 
speaking.  Misinterpreting  her  silence,  De  L'Orme  fol- 
lowed and  endeavored  to  detain  her. 

" '  Touch   me  not,   De   L'Orme,'  said  Adelaide,  with 


THE     SEAMSTRESS.  321 

quivering  lip,  while  neck,  cheek,  brow,  were  crimsoned 
with  shame  and  indignation,  '  touch  me  not,  my  confidence 
has  been  misplaced  ;  but  from  you,  De  L'Orme,  from  you, 
should  not  have  come  this  added  humiliation.' 

"  '  Listen  to  me,  Adelaide.  Your  husband  has  left  you 
alone  and  unprotected,  he  has  broken  the  vows  that  made 
you  his,  and  you  are  free.  I  will  be  te  you — ' 

"  The  unhappy  woman  turned  on  him  a  look  of  proud 
and  stern  reproach,  yet  so  mournful  withal,  that  De 
L'Orme's  eyes  fell  beneath  her  gaze,  and  he  was  too  much 
confused  to  proceed. 

"  When  he  looked  up  she  was  gone.  In  her  own  cham- 
ber all  Adelaide's  assumed  composure  vanished.  She 
threw  herself  on  a  couch  and  gave  way  to  an  agony  of 
tears.  Her  pride  had  hitherto  supported  her.  Through 
all  her  misfortunes  none  had  dared  by  word,  or  look,  to 
treat  her  with  undue  familiarity,  and  now  the  only  one  in 
whom  she  had  confided,  was  the  first  to  make  her  feel  how 
utterly  defenceless  and  humiliating  was  her  present  posi 
tion.  Anything  else  she  might  have  borne,  rather  than 
return  alone  to  the  home  she  had  left  so  proudly,  almost 
triumphantly.  De  L'Orme  wrote  repeatedly,  but  his  let- 
ters were  returned  unopened,  and  with  all  speed  Adelaide 
prepared  to  leave  Paris.  Her  maid  accompanied  her  to 
Havre,  and  was  there  dismissed ;  and  alone  and  unattend- 
ed, Adelaide  embarked  on  board  the  packet.  The  weather 
was  stormy,  the  voyage  long  and  wearisome,  and  her  health 
began  to  give  way.  Oh,  how  the  stricken  one  longed  for 
home !  When  she  had  landed  and  procured  a  carriage, 
she  gave  the  driver  her  father's  address,  and  in  a  state  of 
nervous  anxiety  threw  herself  back  in  the  seat,  and  tried 
to  think  how  it  would  look  at  home. 
14* 


322  THE     SEAMSTRESS. 

"  The  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  streets  were 
thronged  with  multitudes  all  hurrying  homeward.  The 
laborer,  with  his  weary  frame  and  toil-stained  garments, 
and  the  successful  money-maker,  with  his  self-satisfied 
bearing  and  fine  apparel,  were  jostling  each  other  in  their 
eager  haste.  Their  object  was  the  same — to  reach  their 
home — how  widely  different ! 

"  With  a  beating  heart  Adelaide  asjended  the  steps  of 
her  father's  house.  It  had  a  strange,  deserted  look.  There 
were  no  lights  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the  servant  who 
opened  the  door  was  not  old  Hector,  who  had  been  in  the 
family  since  her  childhood.  She  was  passing  through  the 
hall  without  speaking,  when  the  servant  asked  '  who  she 
wished  to  see  ?' 

li '  Miss  Gf ,'  replied  Adelaide, '  is  she  not  at  home  ?' 

"  '  She  does  not  live  here,  madam.' 

" '  Not  live  here  !  this  is  Mr.  Gr 's  residence,  is  it 

not?' 

"  The  servant  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  answered, 

'  It  was,  madam,  but  Mr.  Gr moved  away  two  weeks 

ago.' 

"  Adelaide  was  stunned,  and  leaned  against  the  wall  for 
support. 

"  '  Can  you  tell  me  where  he  has  removed  to  ?' 

"  The  man  gave  her  the  direction,  and  with  sad  fore- 
bodings Adelaide  turned  from  the  home  of  her  happy  years. 
She  could  scarcely  believe  that  the  humble-looking  tene- 
ment to  which  she  had  been  directed  could  be  the  shelter 
of  her  parents  and  her  sister.  Parents !  alas,  she  had  but 
one.  A  week  before  her  arrival  her  mother  had  died, 
even  while  praying  that  she  might  be  spared  to  see  her 
child.  The  shock  of  meeting  her  family  under  such  al- 


THE     SEAMSTRESS.  323 

tered  circumstances  preyed  upon  Adelaide's  already  en- 
feebled frame,  and  in  four  months  after  her  return  she  was 
laid  beside  her  mother,  leaving  an  infant  of  two  weeks  old 
to  the  care  of  her  sister. 

"  From  the  moment  that  misfortune  overtook  the  once 
prosperous  merchant,  Herman  Hope,  the  young  clergyman 
to  whom  I  have  alluded,  was  a  constant  visitor  when  in 
the  city.  It  was  he  who  stood  by  the  bedside  of  Ade- 
laide's mother,  when  death  released  her  from  her  sorrows, 
and  it  was  his  voice  which  repeated  at  the  grave  the  bless- 
ed words,  '  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life.'  It  was  he 
who  poured  the  baptismal  water  on  the  brow  of  Adelaide's 
child,  and,  in  her  conflict  with  the  King  of  Terrors,  ad- 
ministered the  consolations  of  religion  to  Adelaide  her- 
self. It  was  he  who  whispered  comfort  and  resignation  to 
the  sadly-stricken  survivors,  showing  them  that  the  '  Lord 
loveth  whom  he  chasteneth,'  and  that  '  those  outward  afflic- 
tions which  are  but  for  a  moment,  worketh  for  us  an  ex- 
ceeding weight  of  glory.' 

"  Herman  Hope  was  the  last  of  a  family  who  had  one 
by  one  passed  away,  with  a  beaming  of  the  eye  and  a 
burning  of  the  cheek  which  was  beautiful  to  the  last. 
Often  had  Mary  trembled  as  the  azure  veins  in  his  fore- 
head grew  more  transparent,  and  the  bright  flush  came 
and  went  more  rapidly ;  but  Herman,  buoyed  by  the  hope 
of  calling  her  his  wife,  gave  no  heed  to  the  disease  steal- 
ing stealthily  upon  him.  The  knowledge  came  too  soon. 
The  physician  told  them  his  only  hope  for  Herman's  re- 
covery was  in  a  winter's  residence  at  Santa  Cruz. 

"  Poor  Mary !  how  many  a  wakeful,  tearful  night,  she 
spent  in  preparing  the  many  little  things  a  woman's  love 
deems  necessary  for  the  comfort  of  an  invalid.  She  could 


324  THE     SEAMSTRESS 

not  go  with  him,  and  smooth  his  pillow,  and  day  by  day 
watch  besile  him,  speaking  tender  words  of  love  and  hope. 
Her  father,  and  her  sister's  helpless  infant,  claimed  her 
care ;  and  commending  her  betrothed  to  the  protection 
of  Him  who  watches  over  all  his  creatures,  she  turned  to 
her  home  duties  with  a  feeling  of  loneliness  greater  than 
she  had  ever  known  before. 

"  Mary  received  a  letter  from  her  lover  soon  after  his 
arrival.  It  was  written  in  that  glad  and  buoyant  tone 
which  always  marks  the  renewed  health  of  one  who  has 
been  suffering  from  illness,  and  who  feels  the  life-current 
once  more  flowing  warmly  through  his  veins. 

"  And  now  Mary's  step  grew  lighter,  and  her  heart- 
pulse  beat  quicker,  as  she  played  with  the  child,  or  admin- 
istered some  gentle  restorative  to  her  parent.  It  was  time 
that  she  should  receive  another  letter,  but  when  none  came, 
she  thought  it  was  because  Herman  wished  to  surprise  her 
with  his  presence,  and  daily  did  she  picture  their  happi- 
ness when  he  should  again  be  at  her  side.  Nestle  a  little 
longer,  thou  bright-winged  angel  of  hope,  nestle  a  little 
longer  in  the  maiden's  heart !  A  little  longer  let  her 
dream,  for  hers  will  be  a  fearful  waking  !  The  beloved— 
the  betrothed — has  passed  away  to  the  Silent  Land,  and 
she  sat  not  by  him  when  the  dark  angel  veiled  his  eyes  in 
shadow — she  kissed  not  his  last  breath,  when  the  bright 
angel  bore  his  soul  to  bliss.  A  lock  of  hair  !  a  ring  !  and 
these  are  all  that  is  left !  Precious  mementos  of  the  dead, 
to  be  laid  aside  sacredly,  to  be  wept  over  in  secret,  to  be 
kissed  by  the  lips,  to  be  pressed  to  the  heart  until  the  hand 
can  no  longer  clasp  its  treasures  !  Of  Mary's  sorrows  I 
may  not  speak.  It  would  be  profanation.  A  wife  bereav- 
ed of  her  husband,  has  no  need  to  hide  her  grief.  But  a 


THE     SEA.MSTRESS.  325 

maiden  bereaved  of  her  betrothed,  must  fold  the  agony  in 
her  own  heart ;  maidenly  delicacy  prompts  her  to  hide  all 
sign  of  sorrow,  and  only  in  solitude  can  her  pent-up  feel- 
ings have  vent  in  tears. 

"  Notwithstanding  Mary's  strict  economy,  the  little  that 
had  been  spared  her  father  by  his  creditors  was  nearly 
spent,  and  the  time  she  could  steal  from  attendance  on 
him,  and  the  child,  was  given  to  her  needle. 

"  Many  a  beautifully  embroidered  fabric  was  admired 
by  her  former  associates,  without  their  being  aware  that  to 
the  merchant's  daughter  was  due  the  praise  so  freely 
given. 

"  A  few  years  more,  and  Mary  was  left  alone  with  the 
child.  She  still  toiled  on,  though,  owing  to  the  failure  of 
her  eye-sight,  she  had  ceased  to  embroider,  and  was  obliged 
to  resort  to  plain  sewing  to  earn  a  subsistence.  Some  of 
her  former  friends  wished  to  aid  her,  but  she  gently  refus- 
ed their  kindness,  and  for  fourteen  years  she  has  main- 
tained herself  and  the  orphan  boy." 

Mr.  Boardman  paused,  and  Clara  eagerly  asked,  '•  Where 
is  she  now,  papa  ?  What  is  her  name  ?  How  I  should 
like  to  see  such  a  woman  !  And  she  never  got  married  ? 
What  a  pity  !"  (Clara  seemed  to  think  that  woman's  only 
mission  was  the  mission  matrimonial.)  "  Well,  I  should 
like  to  see  her,  though.  Po  you  know  where  she  lives, 
papa  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  if  you  had  gone  where  I  requested  you  to 
yesterday,  you  would  have  known  too." 

"  Why  pa',  it  can't  be — no,  no,  it  can't  be  Miss  Grey  !" 

"Yes,  Clara,  it  is  Miss  G-rey  of  whom  I  have  been 
speaking,  one  of" the  most  amiable,  suffering,  self-sacrificing 
women  I  have  ever  known.  Miss  Grey,  cradled  like  your- 


326  THE     SEAMSTRESS. 

self  in  luxury,  and  now  your  mother's  '  sewing-woman, 
hired  at  so  much  a  day'  !" 

Clara  blushed  with  shame,  and  her  father  proceeded. 

"  It  is  a  long  story  I  have  told  you,  my  daughter,  but 
my  feelings  were  too  much  interested  to  allow  of  my  short- 
ening its  details.  There  is  a  brief  tale  connected  with  it 
which  I  will  also  relate  to  you. 

"  You  remember  that  I  said  Mr.  G-rey  had  many  vessels 
trading  to  foreign  ports.  The  mate  of  one  of  these  ves- 
sels was  often  at  the  office  of  the  merchant,  and  sometimes 
at  his  house,  on  business,  where  he  was  always  received 
with  kindness.  Frequently,  at  dusk,  he  met  a  very  pretty 
girl  leaving  the  house,  who,  he  ascertained,  did  the  plain 
sewing  of  the  family.  One  evening  they  chanced  to  leave 
the  house  at  the  same  time,  and  the  mate  walked  by  the 
young  girl's  side,  and  by  degrees  entered  into  a  conversa- 
tion with  her,  which  was  only  interrupted  by  her  stopping 
before  her  own  door,  and  thanking  him  for  his  civility. 
He  still  lingered  without  bidding  her  good  night,  and  with 
some  little  hesitation  she  invited  him  to  enter. 

"  He  did  so  gladly.  After  one  or  two  more  voyages  she 
became  his  wife.  His  captain  died,  and  through  the  kind- 
ness of  the  owner  he  was  promoted  to  the  command  of  a 
fine  ship.  In  time  he  became  owner  himself  of  part  of 
her  cargo.  Fortune  smiled  upon  him,  all  his  investments 
were  profitable,  and  in  a  few  years  he  no  longer  went  to 
sea,  but  took  his  place  among  the  wealthiest  merchants  of 
the  city. 

"  His  wife  was  a  handsome,  fashionable  woman,  and  his 
eldest  daughter  was  in  many  respects  like  her  mother. 
The  father  was  fond  of  his  daughter,  too  fond  to  see  her 
faults.  He  did  not  know  how  deeply  the  hateful  weed  of 


THE     SEAMSTRESS.  327 

pride  had  taken  root  in  her  heart,  until  he  heard  her  speak 
contemptuously  of  the  class  to  which  her  mother  had  be- 
longed, until  he  heard  her  refuse  to  visit  one  to  whose  fa- 
ther her  own  owed  all  his  prosperity." 

"  Oh,  pa',"  exclaimed  Clara,  her  face  crimsoned  with 
mortification,  "  oh,  pa',  it  can't  be  !" 

"  Yes,  Clara,  it  was  from  the  door  of  Miss  Grey's  once 
elegant  home,  that  your  father  first  walked  with  the  SEAM- 
STRESS." 


Jfirst    S&tty. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OF  all  the  woe,  and  want,  and  wretchedness,  which  awaken 
our  compassion ;  of  all  the  scenes  of  misery  which 
call  so  loudly  for  sympathy ;  there  is  none  that  so  harrows 
up  the  feelings  as  the  drunkard's  home  !  Look  at  him  who 
began  life  with  the  love  of  friends,  the  admiration  of  soci- 
ety, the  prospect  of  extensive  usefulness ;  look  at  him  in 
after  years,  when  he  has  learned  to  love  the  draught,  which, 
we  shudder  while  we  say  it,  reduces  him  to  the  level  of  the 
brute.  Where  is  now  his  usefulness  ?  where  the  admira- 
tion, where  the  love,  that  once  were  his  ?  Love  !  none  but 
the  love  of  a  wife,  or  a  child,  can  cling  to  him  in  his  degra- 
dation. Look  at  the  woman,  who,  when  she  repeated  "  for 
better  for  worse,"  would  have  shrunk  with  terror  had  the 
faintest  shadow  of  the  "  worse"  fallen  upon  her  young 
heart.  Is  that  she  who  on  her  bridal  day  was  adorned 
with  such  neatness  and  taste  ?  Ah  me,  what  a  sad  change  ! 
And  the  children,  for  whom  he  thanked  God,  at  their  birth ; 
the  little  ones  of  whom  he  had  been  so  proud,  whom  he 
had  dandled  on  his  knee,  and  taught  to  lisp  the  endearing 
name  of  father — see  them  trembling  before  him,  and  en- 
deavoring to  escape  his  violence. 


THE    FIK8T     STEP.  329 

Ob  God,  have  pity  upon  the  drunkard's  home  !  Who 
that  looks  upon  it  but  would  fearingly  turn  aside  from 
the  first  step  to  ruin  ? 

James  Boynton  was  the  first-born  of  his  parents,  and  a 
proud  and  happy  mother  was  Mrs.  Boynton,  when  her 
friends  gathered  around  her  to  look  at  her  pretty  babe. 
Carefully  was  he  tended,  and  all  his  infantile  winning  ways 
were  treasured  as  so  many  proofs  of  his  powers  of  endear- 
ment. 

In  wisdom  has  the  Almighty  hidden  the  deep  secrets  of 
futurity  from  mortal  ken.  When  the  mother  first  folds 
her  infant  to  her  heart,  could  she  look  through  the  long 
vista  of  years,  and  see  the  suffering,  the  sin,  the  shame, 
which  may  be  the  portion  of  her  child,  would  she  not  ask 
God  in  mercy  to  take  the  infant  to  himself?  Would  she 
not  unrepiningly,  nay,  thankfully  bear  all  the  agony  of  see- 
ing her  little  one,  with  straightened  limbs,  and  folded 
hands,  and  shrouded  form,  carried  from  her  bosom  to  its 
baby-grave  ?  And  yet,  not  one  of  all  the  thousands  who 
are  steeped  in  wickedness  and  crime,  but  a  mother's  heart 
has  gladdened  when  the  soft  eye  first  looked  into  hers,  and 
the  soft  cheek  first  nestled  on  her  own.  And,  still  more 
awful  thought !  not  one  of  all  these  Pariahs  of  society  but 
has  an  immortal  soul,  to  save  which,  the  Son  of  God  left 
his  glory,  and  agonized  upon  the  cross ! 

James  grew  up  a  warm-hearted  boy,  and  among  his 
young  companions  he  was  a  universal  favorite.  "  Jim 
Boynton  is  too  good-natured  to  refuse  doing  anything  we 
ask,"  said  Ned  Granger  one  day  to  a  school-fellow  who 
feared  that  James  would  not  join  a  party  of  rather  doubt- 
ful character,  which  was  forming  for  what  they  called  a 
frolic.  And  this  was  the  truth.  Here  lay  the  secret  of 


330  THE     FIRST     STEP. 

Boynton's  weakness — he  was  too  good-natured ;  for  this 
very  desirable  and  truly  amiable  quality,  unless  united  with 
firmness  of  character,  is  often  productive  of  evil.  But  we 
pass  over  his  boyish  life,  and  look  at  him  in  early  man- 
hood. 

He  has  a  fine  figure,  with  a  handsome,  intelligent  coun- 
tenance, and  his  manners  have  received  their  tone  and 
polish  from  a  free  intercourse  in  refined  circles.  He  passed 
his  college  examination  with  credit  to  himself;  but,  from 
sheer  indecision  of  character,  hesitated  in  choosing  a  pro- 
fession. At  this  time,  an  uncle,  who  resided  at  the  South, 
was  about  retiring  from  mercantile  life,  and  he  proposed 
that  James  should  enter  with  him  as  a  junior  partner,  while 
he  would  remain  for  a  year  or  two  to  give  his  nephew  the 
benefit  of  his  experience.  The  business  was  a  lucrative 
one,  and  the  proposal  was  accepted. 

James  left  his  home  at  the  North,  and  went  to  try  his 
fortunes  amid  new  scenes  and  new  temptations.  His  uncle 
received  him  warmly,  for  the  old  man  had  no  children  of 
his  own,  and  James  was  his  god-child.  His  uncle's  po- 
sition in  society,  and  his  own  frank  and  gentlemanly  de- 
meanor, won  him  ready  access  to  the  hospitality  of  South- 
ern friends,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  fell  in  love  with 
a  pretty  orphan  girl,  whom  he  frequently  met  at  the  house 
of  a  common  acquaintance.  That  the  girl  was  portionless 
was  no  demerit  in  his  uncle's  eyes.  Not  all  his  treasures, 
and  they  were  large,  had  choked  the  avenues  to  the  old 
man's  heart,  and  the  young  people  were  made  happy  by  his 
approval  of  their  union. 

After  a  visit  to  his  friends  in  the  North,  James  returned 
with  his  bride;  and  in  a  modern  house,  furnished  with 
every  luxury,  the  happy  pair  began  their  wedded  life.  And 


THE    FIRST     STEP.  331 

now,  who  so  blest  as  Boynton  ?  Three  years  pass  away, 
and  two  children  make  their  home  still  brighter.  Does  no 
one  see  the  cloud,  "  not  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,"  upon 
the  verge  of  the  moral  horizon  ? 

Boynton's  dislike  to  saying  "  No,"  when  asked  to  join  a 
few  male  friends  at  dinner,  or  on  a  party  of  pleasure;  his 
very  good  nature,  which  made  him  so  desirable  a  compan- 
ion, were  the  means  of  leading  him  in  the  steps  to 
ruin. 

"  Come,  Boynton,  another  glass." 

"  Excuse  me,  my  dear  fellow,  I  have  really  taken  too 
much  already." 

"  Nonsense  !  it's  the  parting  glass,  you  must  take  it." 

And  Boynton,  wanting  in  firmness  of  character,  yielded 
to  the  voice  of  the  tempter.  Need  we  say,  that,  with  in- 
dulgence, the  love  for  the  poison  was  strengthened  ? 

For  awhile  the  unfortunate  man  strove  to  keep  up  ap- 
pearances. He  was  never  seen  during  the  day  in  a  state 
of  intoxication ;  and  from  a  doze  on  the  sofa  in  the  even- 
ing, or  a  heavy  lethargic  sleep  at  night,  he  could  awake  to 
converse  with  his  friends,  or  attend  at  his  counting-room, 
without  his  secret  habit  being  at  all  suspected. 

But  who  that  willingly  dallies  with  temptation,  can  fore- 
tell the  end  ?  Who  can  "  lay  the  flattering  unction  to  his 
soul,"  that  in  a  downward  path  he  can  stop  when  he 
pleases,  and  unharmed  retrace  his  steps  ?  Like  the  moth, 
circling  nearer  and  still  nearer  to  the  flame,  until  the  insect 
falls  with  scorched  wing  a  victim  to  its  own  temerity,  so 
will  the  pinions  of  the  soul  be  left  scathed  and  drooping. 

Soon  Boynton  began  to  neglect  his  business,  and  he  was 
secretly  pointed  out  as  a  man  of  intemperate  habits.  At 
last  he  was  shunned,  shaken  oft7,  by  the  very  men  who  had 


332  THE     FIRST     STEP. 

led  him  astray.  Who  were  most  guilty?  Let  heaven 
judge. 

Here  let  us  pause,  and  ask  why  it  is,  that  so  many  look 
upon  a  fellow-being  verging  to  the  brink  of  ruin,  without 
speaking  one  persuasive  word,  or  doing  one  kindly  act,  to 
win  him  back  to  virtue  ?  Why  it  is,  that,  when  fallen,  he 
is  thrust  still  farther  down  by  taunting  and  contempt  ?  Oh, 
such  was  not  the  spirit  of  Him  who  came  "  to  seek  and  to 
save  that  which  was  lost."  Such  was  not  the  spirit  of  Him 
who  said,  "  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee ;  go,  and  sin  no 
more."  How  often,  instead  of  throwing  the  mantle  of 
charity  over  a  brother's  sin,  instead  of  telling  him  his  fault 
u  between  thee  and  him  alone,"  is  it  bared  to  the  light  of 
day,  trumpeted  to  a  cold  and  censure-loving  world,  until 
the  victim  either  sinks  into  gloomy  despondency,  and  be- 
lieves it  hopeless  for  him  to  attempt  amendment,  or  else 
stands  forth  in  bold  defiance,  and  rushes  headlong  to  his 
ruin.  Not  one  human  being  stands  so  perfect  in  his  isola- 
tion, as  to  be  wholly  unmoved  by  contact  with  his  fellows ; 
what  need,  then,  for  the  daily  exercise  of  that  god-like 
charity  which  "  sufiereth  long  and  is  kind,"  which  "  re- 
joiceth  not  in  iniquity,"  which  "  beareth  all  things,  believ- 
eth  all  things,  Jwpeth  all  things,  endureth  all  things." 

Seven  years  have  gone  with  their  records  to  eternity : 
— where  is  James  Boynton  now  ? 

In  one  room  of  a  miserable,  dilapidated  tenement,  in- 
habited by  many  unfortunate  victims  of  poverty  and  vice, 
lives  he  who  on  his  wedding-day  had  entered  a  home  which 
taste  and  luxury  rendered  enviable.  Squalor  and  discom- 
fort are  on  every  side.  His  four  children  are  pale  and 
sickly,  from  want  of  proper  food,  and  close  confinement  in 
that  deleterious  atmosphere.  They  have  learned  to  hide 


THE     FIRST     STEP.  333 

away  when  they  hear  their  father's  footsteps,  for,  alas  !  to 
his  own,  he  is  no  longer  the  good-natured  man.  Fallen 
in  his  own  esteem,  frequently  the  subject  of  ribald  mirth, 
his  passions  have  become  inflamed,  and  he  vents  his  ill-hu- 
mor on  his  defenceless  family.  He  no  longer  makes  even 
a  show  of  doing  something  for  their  support ;  and,  to  keep 
them  from  starving,  his  wife  works  wherever,  and  at  what- 
ever she  can  find  employment. 

A  few  more  years,  and  where  is  Mrs.  Boynton  ?  Trem- 
ble, ye  who  set  an  example  to  your  families  of  which  ye 
cannot  foretell  the  consequences  !  Tremble,  ye  whom  God 
has  made  to  be  the  protectors,  the  guides,  the  counsellors, 
of  the  women  ye  have  vowed  to  love  and  cherish  !  Mrs. 
Boynton,  like  her  husband,  has  fallen !  In  an  evil  hour, 
harassed  by  want,  ill-used  by  her  husband,  she  tasted  the 
fatal  cup.  It  produced  temporary  forgetfulness,  from 
which  she  woke  to  a  sense  of  shame  and  anguish.  Ah, 
she  had  no  mother,  no  sister,  no  woman-friend  who  truly 
cared  for  her,  to  warn,  to  plead,  to  admonish  !  Again  was 
she  tempted,  again  she  tasted,  and  that  squalid  home  was 
rendered  tenfold  more  wretched,  by  the  absence  of  all  at- 
tempt at  order.  However  great  may  be  the  sorrow  and 
distress  occasioned  by  a  man's  love  for  strong  drink,  it  is 
not  to  be  compared  to  the  deep  wretchedness  produced  by 
the  same  cause  in  woman  ;  and  it  is  matter  for  thankful- 
ness, that  so  few  men  drag  down  their  wives  with  them  in 
their  fall. 

Providence  raised  up  a  friend  who  took  the  barefooted 
children  of  the  Boyntons  from  being  daily  witnesses  of  the 
evil  habits  of  their  parents;  and  so  dulled  were  all  the 
finer  feelings  of  his  nature,  that  James  Boynton  parted 
from  them  without  a  struggle. 


334  THE     FIRST     STEP. 

Like  the  Lacedemonians  of  old,  who  exposed  the  vice  to 
render  it  hateful  in  the  eyes  of  the  beholders,  we  might 
give  other  and  more  harrowing  scenes  from  real  life  ;  but 
let  this  one  suffice.  Thank  God,  for  the  change  which 
public  opinion  has  already  wrought !  Thank  God,  for  the 
efforts  which  have  been  made  to  stay  the  moral  pestilence  ! 
Oh,  it  is  fearful  to  think  how  many  homes  have  been  made 
desolate — how  many  hearts  have  been  broken — how  many 
fine  minds  have  been  ruined — how  many  lofty  intellects 
have  been  humbled  !  It  is  fearful  to  think  of  the  madness 
— the  crime — the  awful  death — which  follow  in  the  first 
Step  to  Ruin ! 


"  For  better  for  worse." 

"  ~IT7"HO  was  that  pale,  interesting-looking  woman  we  saw 
''     in  the  church-yard  this  afternoon,  Eleanor?" 
u  Do  you  mean  the  lady  who  led  a  little  girl  by  the  hand, 
and  who  bowed  to  us  as  we  were  passing  ?" 
"  The  same." 

-  That  was  Mrs.  Danvers,  the  English  lady  who  lives  in 
the  pretty  cottage,  half  embowered  in  clematis  and  honey- 
suckle, at  the  foot  of  the  lane.  As  I  have  promised  to 
make  you  acquainted  with  some  particulars  in  her  eventful 
history,  we  may  not  perhaps  find  a  more  fitting  time  than 
the  present  for  their  recital. 

"  About  three  years  ago  we  heard  that  the  cottage 
which  had  long  been  unoccupied  was  rented  to  a  family 
who  were  strangers  in  the  neighborhood,  and  whose  man- 
ners and  appearance  betokened  their  belonging  to  that 
class  of  whom  we  usually  speak  as  having  seen  better  days- 
An  air  of  neatness  and  taste  was  soon  visible  about  the 
place — the  little  flower  garden  was  assiduously  cultivated, 
and  the  china  roses  which  had  been  suffered  to  run  wild, 
were  pruned  and  trained  against  the  parlor  window.  Often 
at  twilight  a  low,  sweet  female  voice  was  heard  singing  an 
evening  hymn,  or  chanting  one  of  the  beautiful  anthems  of 
.the  Church  of  England. 


336  A  WIFE'S    LOVE. 

<{  You  know  that  during  the  whole  of  that  summer  the 
parsonage  was  vacant,  and  the  service  of  the  church  per- 
formed occasionally  by  a  clergyman  from  B ,  who, 

although  an  excellent  man,  had  no  time  to  spare  save  for 
Sunday  worship.  Owing  to  this,  Mr.  Danvers  and  his 
amiable  wife  were  left  without  that  consolation  from  a  be- 
loved pastorwhich  is  always  so  grateful  in  hours  of  affliction. 

"  It  is  often  cause  for  regret  that  in  some  instances  so 
little  intercourse  is  maintained  between  the  clergyman  and 
his  people.  They  listen  to  his  preaching  on  Sunday,  go 
home  and  criticise  his  style  and  manner  of  delivery,  and 
think  no  more  about  the  speaker  until  the  bell  on  the  next 
Lord's  day  calls  them  to  their  accustomed  seat  in  the  sanc- 
tuary. I  do  not  say  this  is  the  case  with  all :  God  for- 
bid. The  devout  Christian  goes  from  higher  and  holier 
motives  than  the  mere  sanction  of  custom,  or  the  hope  of 
hearing  a  fine  specimen  of  pulpit  eloquence  ;  he  knows 
that  he  is  about  entering,  as  it  were,  the  presence-chamber 
of  the  Deity,  and  in  the  sublime  services  of  the  church  his 
heart  holds  communion  with  the  Majesty  on  high ;  to  the 
sermon  he  listens  as  to  the  teaching  of  one  of  Christ's  am- 
bassadors, and,  although  he  may  be  an  ardent  admirer  of 
the  graces  of  oratory,  regards  the  matter  of  the  discourse 
more  than  the  manner  of  him  who  delivers  it.  Still,  in  a 
mixed  multitude  there  are  many  who  might  be  benefited, 
ay,  benefited  perhaps  to  the  saving  of  their  souls,  by  friend- 
ly words  of  encouragement  or  warning  from  their  pastor 
in  private.  There  is  hardly  one  human  heart  so  depraved 
as  not  to  be  won  upon  by  kindness ;  and  the  kindness  of  a 
clergyman  who  has  endeared  himself  to  his  people  by  a 
personal  interest  in  their  concerns,  is,  of  all  others,  the 
most  touching,  while,  in  the  regard  entertained  for  him  by 


A   WIFE'S    LOVE.  337 

his  flock,  there  is  an  union  of  affectionate  love  and  filial 
reverence  so  harmoniously  blended,  as  to  form  one  of  the 
most  delightful  emotions. 

"  There  is  something  so  holy,  so  sacred  in  religion,  that 
it  shuns  observation,  and  retires  within  the  innermost  re- 
cesses of  the  heart.  This  is  more  particularly  the  case 
with  the  young,  and  yet  how  frequently  do  those  who  are 
about  to  engage  in  this  world's  warfare  languish  for  want 
of  spiritual  intercourse !  And  there  are  moments  too,  in 
the  lives  of  some, — moments  of  heart-crushing  sorrow — 
moments  of  pain  and  agony  of  spirit, — when  the  mind  is 
like  to  '  sweet  bells  jangled  out  of  tune' ;  oh,  what  would  not 
then  be  given  for  one  hour's  free,  and  familiar,  and  con- 
fiding communion  with  a  dear  servant  of  God's  altar' 
But  it  may  not  be ;  heart-sorrow,  like  heart-piety,  is  un 
obtrusive,  and  cannot  be  poured  into  the  ear  of  the  cler- 
gyman, esteemed  though  he  may  be,  who  is  hardly  known 
to  his  people  out  of  the  pulpit.  Pardon  me  this  long  di- 
gression ;  the  subject  is  one  which  in  former  years  was 
painfully  brought  home  to  me  ill  more  than  one  instance, 
and  it  has  often  occupied  my  thoughts. 

u  Some  two  years  or  more  after  Mr.  Danvers  came  to 
reside  at  the  cottage,  Mr.  Elwood  was  called  to  take  charge 
of  this  parish,  and  it  was  on  one  of  the  loveliest  days  of 
autumn  that  we  arrived  at  the  parsonage.  The  evening 
was  just  closing  in,  and  the  glories  of  the  '  sun's  golden  set' 
was  falling  on  the  many-colored  leaves  of  the  old  trees 
around  our  dwelling ;  the  river  lay  slumbering  in  the  dis- 
tance, unruffled  as  a  mirror,  and  the  soft  breeze  scarcely 
stirred  the  long  branches  of  the  willow  that  hung  over  the 
.  eastern  doorway ;  all  was  beauty !  beauty  in  repose !  it 
was  a  scene  worthy  the  pencil  of  a  Claude.  Never  shall  I 

15 


338  A   WIFE'S    LOVE. 

forget  the  holy  calm  which  stole  over  my  soul  at  that 
sweet  hour,  while  I  silently  prayed  that  the  labors  of 
Ernest  might  be  blessed,  and  that  the  close  of  both  our 
lives  might  be  serene  and  tranquil  as  the  beautiful  twilight 
of  that  autumn  evening. 

"  The  next  day  being  Sunday  there  was  no  opportunity 
for  more  than  a  casual  observation  of  those  who  attended 
church ;  but  on  Monday  morning  Mr.  Elwood  left  home 
for  the  purpose  of  visiting  his  parishioners,  and  ascertain- 
ing if  there  were  any  among  the  poorer  classe^-who  needed 
assistance.  It  was  not  until  his  return  in  the  afternoon 
that  he  called  at  the  house  of  Mr.  DanVers ;  the  reception 
he  met  with  was  grateful  to  his  healfc,  and  enlisted  his 
sympathies  in  favor  of  its  inmates.  I  was  so  much  inter- 
ested by  what  he  told  me  of  the  family,  that  at  an  early 
hour  on  the  following  day  I  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
cottage.  It  was  opened  by  Mrs.  Danvers,  and  on  my  in- 
troducing myself,  I  was  shown  into  the  little  parlor  whose 
rose-latticed  window  had  been  the  object  of  my  admiration ; 
and  as  my  eye  strayed  round  the  room,  I  saw  that  the  hand 
of  taste  had  been  busy  within  those  white-washed  walls, 
and  under  that  lowly  ceiling.  Mrs.  Danvers  said  that  her 
husband  had  been  ill  during  the  night,  and  had  just  fallen 
into  a  gentle  slumber,  from  which  she  hoped  he  would 
wake  refreshed  and  free  from  pain.  The  entrance  of  her 
little  girl  interrupted  our  conversation,  and  as  the  child 
whispered  '  papa  is  awake,'  I  rose  to  depart ;  but  Mrs.  Dan- 
vers requested  me  to  stay  and  see  her  husband.  On  ac- 
companying her  into  the  small  chamber  where,  half  raised 
in  bed,  supported  by  pillows,  rested  Mr.  Danvers,  I  look- 
ed upon  his  face,  and  that  one  look  was  enough !  the  high, 
white  forehead,  from  which  had  been  thrown  back  the  rich 


A   WIFE'S    LOVE.  339 

clusters  of  chesnut  hair,  was  damp  and  pallid,  while  the 
deep  blue  eye  shone  with  unnatural  brilliancy. 

"  It  was  from  Mr.  Danvers's  own  lips  that  Ernest  at 
intervals,  during  frequent  visits,  heard  his  story.  He  was 
an  only  son,  and  had  been  heir  to  a  large  fortune  ;  and 
while  yet  at  college,  he  was  a  welcome  visitor  in  the  fami- 
ly of  Mr.  Travers,  a  friend  of  his  father's.  A  slight  and 
graceful  figure,  sunny  ringlets  falling  round  a  face  of 
girlish  loveliness,  manners  at  once  timid  and  confiding,  a 
highly-cultivated  taste,  and  a  mind  filled  with  all  pure  and 
lofty  thoughts,  won  for  Emily  Travers  the  heart  of  the 
young  collegian. 

"  Their  parents  saw  with  pleasure  the  attachment  of 
their  children,  and  it  was  arranged  that  as  soon  as  Charles 
had  completed  his  college  course,  and  made  choice  of  a  pro- 
fession, they  should  be  united.  The  time  at  length  arrived, 
and  Charles  having  chosen  the  study  of  the  law,  received 
the  hand  of  his  beautiful  bride  from  her  father  at  the  altar. 

"For  awhile  after  his  marriage,  he  followed  with  avidi- 
ty the  path  he  had  marked  out  for  himself;  but  his  was 
not  one  of  those  minds  which,  for  the  purpose  of  attaining 
eminence,  can  concentrate  its  energies  upon  dry  and  ab- 
struse subjects;  his  studies  became  irksome,  and  a  re- 
newal of  acquaintance  with  some  dissipated  young  men  he 
had  known  at  Eton,  tended  still  more  to  alienate  his  mind 
from  legal  pursuits.  Regard  for  his  wife,  whom  he  loved 
amid  all  his  wanderings,  kept  him  for  a  time  from  open 
excess ;  but  the  tyrant  habit  became  too  strong  for  his 
weak  resolutions,  and  one  night  the  talented  and  accom- 
plished Charles  ^Danvers  was  assisted  by  boon  companions 
to  his  home.  His  wretched  wife  watched  over  him  through 
that  long  night  of  misery,  with  her  unconscious  infant 


340  A   WIFE'S    LOVE. 

cradled  in  her  arms ;  and  when  the  morning  came,  and  her 
unhappy  husband  awoke  to  the  humiliating  sense  of  his 
degradation,  she  uttered  no  complaint,  for  she  had  spent 
the  night  in  prayer  to  God  to  enable  her  to  bear  her  hus- 
band's infirmities  without  irritating  him  by  needless  re- 
proaches, and  she  trusted  that  He  who  was  able  and  will- 
ing to  save  to  the  uttermost  would  yet  bring  back  the  wan- 
derer. The  meek  forbearance  of  his  wife  powerfully 
affected  Mr.  Danvers,  and  he  inwardly  resolved  that  she 
should  never  again  suffer  through  his  misconduct;  but 
alas  !  these  resolves  were  made  in  his  own  strength,  he  had 
not  yet  learned  that  it  was  God's  grace  alone  that  could 
keep  him  from  error.  To  the  vice  of  intemperance  was 
now  joined  a  passion  for  gambling,  and  in  a  short  time  he 
was  bankrupt. 

"  The  father  of  Mrs.  Danvers  wished  her  to  leave  her 
husband,  and  return  to  the  parental  roof;  mildly,  yet 
firmly,  she  refused. 

"  '  I  vowed  before  God's  altar  to  abide  with  him  until 
death  should  part  us.  Through  all  changes  I  shall  seek 
strength  to  keep  my  vow,  for  if  his  wife  flee  from  him  as 
from  a  polluted  thing,  who  will  watch  over  him  in  hours 
of  sadness  and  remorse  ?  who  will  administer  consolation 
to  his  wounded  spirit,  and  make  him  feel  that  he  is  still 
capable  of  loving,  that  he  is  still  beloved  ?  My  father,  I 
cannot  leave  him ' — and  for  the  first  time  Mr.  Travers 
parted  in  anger  from  his  daughter. 

"  By  selling  some  articles  of  value  which  had  been  saved 
from  the  wreck  of  their  fortune,  Mrs.  Danvers  obtained  a 
considerable  sum,  and  prevailed  on  her  /husband  to  em- 
bark for  America.  The  spirit  of  the  haughty  man  was 
subdued,  and  he  who  should  have  been  her  supporter,  her 


A   WIFE'S    LOVE.  S41 

protector,  was  now  obliged  to  look  to  his  fair  and  delicate 
wife  for  encouragement  and  advice. 

"  On  their  arrival  here,  they  rented  the  cottage  where 
they  reside,  and  far  removed  from  scenes  of  former  tempta- 
tions, the  prayers  of  the  devoted  woman  were  answered, 
and  she  blessed  God  that  he  had  spared  her  to  see  her  be- 
loved husband  a  follower  of  Jesus.  Such  was  the  story  told 
to  Mr.  Elwood,  and  you  may  judge  how  great  was  the  interest 
it  caused  us  to  take  in  the  welfare  of  this  suffering  family. 

"  Mr.  Danvers  lingered  through  the  winter,  and  when 
March,  with  its  winds  so  fatal  to  invalids,  had  gone  by, 
and  he  was  able  to  sit  by  the  parlor  window  reading  from 
the  Word  of  Life,  the  fond  wife  would  hope  that  he  might 
be  spared  a  little  longer. 

"  It  was  after  an  evening  spent  with  them  in  conversing 
on  the  hopes  and  glories  of  immortality,  during  which 
Mrs.  Danvers,  at  her  husband's  request,  had  read  Keble's 
soothing  and  beautiful  '  Burial  of  the  Dead,'  that  Mr.  El- 
wood  and  myself  were  sent  for  in  great  haste ;  Mr.  Dan- 
vers was  worse;  it  was  thought  he  could  not  live  till  morn- 
ing. When  we  entered  the  chamber  where  he  lay,  we 
were  instantly  struck  with  the  change  in  his  appearance, 
and  knew  that  death  was  rapidly  approaching.  Mrs.  Dan- 
vers rose  from  the  bedside,  where  she  had  been  kneeling, 
and  pressed  our  hands  in  silence ;  her  husband  had  wished 
Mr.  Elwood  to  administer  to  him  the  sacrament  of  the 
Lord's  Supper  once  more  on  earth,  ere  he  should  be  called 
to  sit  down  at  the  table  of  the  Lamb. 

"  It  was  a  solemn  and  a  holy  scene  !  there  lay  one  who 
had  erred,  and  who,  clinging  to  the  cross  cf  Christ  as  the 
only  refuge  for  sinners,  had  been  forgiven  ;  one  who  was 
about  to  enter  on  the  realities  of  an  eternal  state,  and  to 


342  A   WIFE'S    LOVE. 

behold  things  which  St.  Paul  has  declared  are  not  lawful 
for  a  man  to  utter,  and  the  sight  of  which,  for  upward  of 
forty  years,  animated  the  zeal  of  the  holy  Apostle,  and 
made  him  desire  to  'depart  and  be  with  Christ,  which 
was  far  better.'  The  '  fair  linen  cloth '  was  spread  upon 
a  small  table  near  the  half-opened  window,  through  which 
the  fragrance  of  spring  flowers  came  wafted  on  the  night 
air ;  the  stillness  of  death  was  around,  broken  only  by  the 
voice  and  step  of  the  pastor  in  the  communion  service. 

'  Sweet  awful  hour !  the  only  sound 
One  gentle  footstep  gliding  round, 
Offering  by  turns,  on  Jesus'  part, 
The  Cross  to  every  hand  and  heart.' 

After  all  had  partaken  of  the  holy  elements,  Mr.  Dan- 
vers,  who  had  sunk  exhausted  on  his  pillow,  suddenly  rous- 
ing himself,  blessed  his  wife  and  child,  and  commended  his 
soul  to  God.  Again  all  was  hushed — and  as  Mr.  Elwood 
knelt  and  offered  up  the  solemn  commendatorj'  prayer  for 
a  sick  person  at  the  point  of  departure,  while  the  first 
hues  of  dawn  were  brightening  the  horizon,  the  spirit  de- 
parted to  the  full  light  of  immortal  day. 

"  It  is  now  six  months  since,  and  the  widowed  mourner 
has  borne  her  bereavement  with  a  pious  resignation  to  the 
Divine  will.  She  has  not  sorrowed  indeed  as  those  who 
have  no  hope,  for  she  feels  that  the  grave  is  the  gate  to 
heaven,  through  which  her  husband  has  passed  before  her ; 
and  if  her  trials  have  been  great,  great  also  have  been  her 
consolations.  Her  trust  was  in  One  mighty  to  save,  in 
One  who  has  said,  '  Fear  thou  not ;  for  I  am  with  thee ; 
be  not  dismayed,  for  I  am  thy  God;  I  will  strengthen 
thee;  yea,  I  will  help  thee;  yea,  I  will  uphold  thee  by 
the  right  hand  of  my  righteousness.'  " 


CHAPTER  I. 

POETS,  we  take  it  for  granted,  are  early  risers.  No 
downy  couch  can  woo  them,  or,  at  least,  can  win  them, 
when — 

"There's  gold  upon  the  mountain-brow, — 
There's  light  on  forests,  lakes,  and  meadows." 

No  dallying  with  the  drowsy  god — 

"  — When  rosy-fingered  Morning  faire, 
"Weary  of  old  Tithone's  saffron  bed, 
Has  spread  her  purple  robe  through  dewey  aire ;" 

no — no ;  they  at  least  (the  poets  we  mean)  are  up  with 
the  lark — how  else  could  they  write  such  glowing  and  glo- 
rious descriptions  as  this  : — 

"When  the  firmament  quivers  with  daylight's  young  beam, 
And  the  woodlands,  awaking,  burst  into  a  hymn, 
And  the  glow  of  the  sky  blazes  back  from  the  stream." 

There,  dear  city  reader,  does  not  the  blood  tingle  more 
warmly  through  your  veins  ? — are  not  your  pulses  bound- 
ing with  a  quicker  thrill  ? — do  you  not  wish  for  wings,  to 
flee  away  to  the  woodlands  of  your  "own  green  forest 
land,"  and  see — 


344  EASE-LOVING     PHILANTHROPY. 

"  How  Nature  paints  her  colors — how  the  bee 
Sits  on  the  bloom,  extracting  liquid  sweet?" 

And  it  is  glorious  to  watch  the  first  uplifting  of  Night's 
curtain  from  the  morning  sky — to  see  the  lazy  mists  slow- 
ly creeping  from  the  water's  edge,  and  curling  up  the 
mountain  side — the  sun  peering  forth  from  "  cloud-land, 
gorgeous  land,"  and  sending  iris  robed  messengers  abroad, 
to  herald  his  joyous  coming.  One  more  quotation,  dear 
reader — only  one — from  the  many  which  Morning  has 
spirited  from  the  Past.  Hear  what  he,  who,  like  Chry- 
sostom,  was  called  the  golden-mouthed, — hear  what  Jere- 
my Taylor  says  of  early  dawn : — 

"  But  as  when  the  sun  approaches  towards  the  gates  of  morn- 
ing, he  first  opens  a  little  eye  of  heaven,  and  sends  away  the  spir- 
its of  darkness,  and  gives  light  to  a  cock,  and  calls  up  the  lark 
to  matins,  and  by-and-bye  gilds  the  fringes  of  a  cloud,  and  peeps 
over  the  eastern  hills,  thrusting  out  his  golden  horns,  like  those 
which  decked  the  brows  of  Moses  when  he  was  forced  to  wear  a 
veil,  because  himself  had  seen  the  face  of  God ;  and  still  while  a 
man  tells  the  story,  the  sun  gets  up  higher,  till  he  shows  a  fair 
face  and  full  light." 

Heaven  bless  us,  what  a  rhapsody  !  Not  a  word  about 
heavy  showers,  that  might  damp  enthusiasm — not  a  whis- 
per of  wet  grass,  and  horrid  snakes,  and  such  like  discom- 
forts, that  will  sometimes  tone  down  a  morning  picture. 
Well,  even  under  such  circumstances,  a  light  heart  can 
laugh,  and  a  light  foot  can  run,  and  the  shower  will  pass, 
and  the  snake  glide  harmlessly  under  the  old  log,  and  then 
you  can  forth  again  to  the  ramble.  A  word  here  to  lady 
readers.  Never  attempt  a  walk  in  the  country  before  sun- 
rise, unless  provided  with  good  thick-soled  leather  shoes,  a 
strong  gingham  or  calico  dress  that  will  bear  coming  in 


EASE-LOVING     PHILANTHROPY.  345 

contact  with  thorns — for,  alas  !  the  roselesi  morning  in  the 
woods  is  filled  with  them — an  ample  sun-bonnet  that  you 
can  fling  off  in  the  shady  places,  and  let  the  freshening 
breeze  steal  kisses  from  your  cheek  till  it  outblush  the 
dawn.  Thus  equipped,  away  through  meadow  and  field. 
Don't  be  afraid  to  climb  a  loiv  stone  wall,  if  the  wild  co- 
lumbine nods  you  a  welcome  from  its  woodland  home ; 
don't  turn  away  from  the  stepping-stones  of  a  tiny  brook, 
if  the  starry-eyed  forget-me-not  whispers  pleasant  fancies 
from  its  stream-girt  bower.  Our  truth  for  it,  that  after 
such  a  ramble,  you  return  healthier,  wiser,  better,  with 
more  gratitude  to  God  in  your  souls,  more  love  for  his 
creatures  and  his  works  swelling  up  within  your  hearts, 
and  more  charity  for  the  failings  of  those  who  are  journey- 
ing with  you.  and  who  may  fall,  you  know  not  how  soon, — 

"  Weary  with  tho  march  of  life." 

Poets,  we  take  it  for  granted,  are  early  risers — in  sum- 
mer. But  how  is  it  in  winter,  when  "  the  air  bites  shrewd- 
ly" ?  Has  any  one  ever  seen  the  phenomenon  of  a  poet 
rising  before  daylight  on  a  "  bitter  morning,"  when  the 
ground  was  heaped  with  snow,  and,  pulling  on  a  pair  of 
seven-leagued  boots,  go  forth  on  an  exploring  expedition 
into  the  woods  ?  We  question  whether  even  Alfred  Street, 
with  all  his  nature-loving  propensities,  has  ever  accom- 
plished such  a  feat.  Strange  stories,  indeed,  are  told  of 
wise  and  good  men,  who,  if  they  did  not  from  June  to 
January  outwatch  the  stars,  did  yet  outrise  the  sun.  But 
these  are  rare  exceptions  to  the  general  rule,  and  Leonard 
Lento  was  not  an  exception.  Now,  \ve  are  not  going  to 
let  you  into  the  secret  as  to  whether  our  hero  prosed  or 
rhymed  :  one  of  these  was  his  vocation,  and  should  you 
15* 


346  EASE-LOVING     PHILANTHROPY. 

be  told  which,  you  might  take  to  fancying  that  this  was  a 
darkly-shadowed  daguerreotype  of  some  noted  individual. 
Nor  will  we  reveal  whether  he  does  or  does  not  wear  a 
slight  moustache  on  the  upper  lip — that  secret  is  safe, 
between  him  and  the  coverlet. 

One  thing,  however,  you  must  know,  for  it  was  on  this 
that  he  plumed  himself:  he  did  not  belong  to  the  misera- 
ble tribe  of  common  scribblers,  whose  brains  are  converted 
into  spinning-jennies,  to  supply  their  bodily  wants  !  No, 
thank  heaven,  he — Leonard  Lento — was  a  gentleman  au- 
thor. Pray  don't  make  the  mistake  of  attaching  any  old- 
fashioned  meanings  to  the  comprehensive  word  gentleman  ; 
a  word  that,  in  its  true  and  legitimate  sense,  embodies  all 
that  is  honorable,  noble,  chivalrous,  in  manly  character. 
Mr.  Lento  knew  that  he  was  rich,  and  thought,  of  course, 
he  was  a  gentleman. 

But  in  his  writings  he  leaned  to  the  side  of  the  people, 
and  was  ever  lamenting  the  wretched  fate  of  the  down- 
trodden masses,  and  shedding  tears,  of  ink,  over  the  suf- 
ferings of  poor  humanity.  His  was  indeed  the  "  luxury 
of  wo,"  as  he  sat  at  night  before  the  well-filled  grate,  in 
warm  dressing-gown  and  furred  slippers,  writing  a  jere- 
miad on  the  privations  of  the  poor.  And  his  too  was 
the  "  luxury  of  doing  good,"  as  he  lay  cozily  on  a  winter 
morning,  in  his  curtained  bed,  and  pitied  the  shivering 
creatures  who  crept  forth  from  cellar  and  garret,  and,  with 
bowed  shoulders  and  shuffling  gait,  wended  their  way  to 
the  tread-mill  of  daily  toil.  Something  must  be  done  to 
better  their  condition — some  mighty  effort  must  be  made 
to  level  upward  ;  and  his  pen — the  pen  of  Leonard  Lento — 
should  be  the  lever  that  would  move  the  moral  world. 
Some  cold  morning  he  would  rise  early,  and  go  to  and  fro 


EASE-LOVING     PHILANTHROPY.  347 

through  the  streets  of  the  great  city,  and  look  on  what  he 
had  heard  of,  read  of,  written  of;  but  had  never  seen!  A 
certain  naughty  place,  they  say,  is  paved  with  good  reso- 
lutions ;  and  if  so,  many  a  quaint  mosaic  has  been  con- 
tributed by  Leonard  Lento. 

Now,  Leonard  had  a  cousin.  Well,  you  will  say,  and 
has  not  many  a  man  a  cousin  ?  Yes ;  but  Leonard's  was 
a  bright,  warm-hearted  girl,  who,  we  must  own,  was  a  little 
tinged  with  romance ;  for,  were  it  not  so,  how  could  she 
have  made  a  hero  out  of  ease-loving  Cousin  Leonard  ? 

Lazy,  dawdling,  lie-abed-in-the-morning  people,  were 
Hose  Brandon's  aversion ;  but  Cousin  Leonard  was  not 
one  of  these,  for — he  had  written  a  sonnet  to  Guido's  Au- 
rora !  Rose  Brandon's  heart  was  overflowing  with  warm 
and  genial  charity;  and  many  a  dark  and  poverty-stricken 
fireside  had  been  brightened  by  her  presence  on  a  stormy 
day.  And  was  not  Cousin  Leonard  a  ministering  angel 
to  the  children  of  want;  for — had  he  not  written  an  Essay 
on  the  Prevention  of  Pauperism  ?  Rose  Brandon's  love 
was  the  out-gushing  of  an  ardent  soul,  ready  to  make  any 
sacrifice  for  the  object  of  its  affections,  and  Cousin  Leon- 
ard would  be  an  adoring  lover  :  for — had  he  not  written 
to  prove  the  ecstasy  of  dying  for  the  beloved  ? 

Ah,  Leonard  was  a  sentimentalist — on  paper  !  a  phi- 
lanthropist— on  paper  !  a  lover — on  paper !  and,  by  the 
aid  of  the  above-mentioned  romance,  Rose  transferred  all 
lovable  qualities  from  the  paper  to  the  man.  It  was  a 
sad  mistake,  Rosy,  dear ;  but  one  that  has  been  made  by 
older  heads  than  yours.  It  was  in  vain  that  Aunt  Pru- 
dence sought  to  undeceive  Rose — in  vain  that  Brother 
Frank  laughed  at  lazy  Cousin  Leonard ;  for  Cupid  was 
busy  weaving  meshes  over  the  maiden's  eyes,  thinking, 


348  EASE-LOVING     PHILANTHROPY. 

"  ptetty  trickster,"  to  succeed  in  making  them  blind  as  his 
own. 

"  Rose,"  said  the  mischievous  boy,  Frank — not  Cupid — 
one  winter  morning,  when  he  was  buttoning  his  overcoat. 
"  I  wonder  how  Cousin  Leonard  would  like  to  get  up  and 
join  our  skating  party  ?  How  I  should  like  to  see  him, 
though,  just  for  once  in  the  morning ;  what  a  sight  it 
would  be !" 

"  How  silly  you  talk,  Frank,  Cousin  Leonard  devotes 
all  his  mornings  to  study." 

"  To  study !"  and  Frank  laughed,  as  young  light-heart- 
ed boys  will  laugh,  right  merrily.  "  Why,  Rosy,  he  must 
be  studying  the  dots  on  the  counterpane,  or  the  figures  on 
the  curtain,  for  he  never  rises  till  eleven  or  twelve  o'clock. 

"  Oh,  Frank,  how  can  you  say  so  ?  Leonard  knows  the 
value  of  time  too  well  to  waste  it  in  such  a  manner." 

"  Does  he,  though  ?  Well,  I'll  bet— I'll  bet  a  new  sled 
Leonard  don't  get  out  of  bed  till  the  middle  of  the  day  in 
winter  !  Will  you  bet  ?  Oh,  there's  Ned  Morris  !  Good- 
by,  Sis,"  and  with  another  ringing  laugh,  Frank  ran  to 
join  his  companion. 

"  I  wish  Frank  was  not  so  wild,"  soliloquized  his  sister, 
after  he  had  gone ;  "  and  I  wish  Aunt  Prudence  would  not 
speak  so  unkindly  of  cousin.  If  I  thought  for  a  moment 
he  were  what  they  say  he  is,  I  would — yes,  I  am  sure  I 
would — despise  him." 

Winter  wore  on,  and  while  Cousin  Leonard,  after  extri- 
cating himself  with  difficulty  from  a  mass  of  covering, 
wheeled  a  chair  to  the  fire,  and  wrote  pathetically  of  desti- 
tution, and  transcendentally  of  relief,  Cousin  Rose  might 
be  seen  wrapped  in  a  heavy  cloak,  making  her  daily  visits 
to  the  house  of  a  poor  widow  who  was  suffering  from  ill- 


EASE-LOVING     PHILANTHROPY.  349 

ness,  brought  on  by  overtasking  a  feeble  frame,  in  the  en- 
deavor to  support  herself  and  two  small  children. 

"  I  shall  be  obliged  to  leave  town  for  two  or  three 
weeks,"  said  Rose,  after  she  had  made  all  comfortable  for 
the  invalid,  one  cold  morning ;  "  but  my  little  Nelly  here 
will,  I  am  sure,  prove  a  good  nurse  until  my  return  " 

The  sick  woman's  heart  sunk  within  her,  for  Rose's 
daily  visit  had  been  the  only  sunshine  of  her  dreary  home. 
It  was  not  Rose's  benefactions  alone,  but  her  soothing 
words,  her  cheerful,  hopeful  manner,  that  gave  new  life  to 
the  way-worn  creature,  who  had  no  other  earthly  friend, 
and  tears  she  could  not  repress  started  to  her  eyes,  as  she 
thought  of  weeks  elapsing  without  the  presence  of  her 
benefactress. 

"  I  am  very  selfish,  my  dear  young  lady,"  sobbed  poor 
Mrs.  Brown,  "  but  you  have  been  very  good  to  me,  and  I 
cannot  bear  the  thought  of  being  so  long  without  seeing 
you.  I  can  never  be  thankful  enough  for  your  kindness, 
and  if  the  prayers  of  a  poor  creature  like  me  can  bring 
blessings,  they  will  ever  be  offered  up  for  you." 

"  There  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  and  Rose  blushed  as  she 
spoke,  "  who  is  one  of  the  most  kind-hearted  beings  in  the 
world ;  I  will  get  him  to  call  on  you  while  I  am  absent, 
and  if,  at  any  time,  you  should  require  immediate  atten- 
tion, send  for  him  ;  he  will  not  delay  coming  to  you." 

"  May  God  bless  you,  my  dear  young  lady,  and  grant 
that  I  may  see  you  again,"  said  the  widow,  as  she  took 
the  paper  on  which  Rose  had  written  the  address  of  Leon- 
ard Lento. 

That  evening,  Cousin  Leonard  was  sitting  beside  Rose, 
in  the  warm,  well-lighited  parlor,  and  as  a  sudden  gust  of 
wind  rather  noisily  closed  an  unfastened  shutter :  "  Oh,  it 


350  EASE-LOVING      PHILANTHROPY. 

is  shocking  to  those  who,  like  me,  feel  so  keenly  for  the 
miseries  of  poor  suffering  humanity,  (a  favorite  phrase 
this  of  Lento's,)  it  is  shocking  to  think,  on  such  a  night 
as  this, 

'Sore  pierced  by  wintry  winds, 

How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 
Of  cheerless  poverty!' 

Oh,  what  mighty  efforts  should  be  made  by  true  philan- 
thropists to  drive  the  curse  of  poverty  from  the  land ! 
Men  should  be  taught  to  feel  that  they  are  brothers,  and 
society  be  upheaved  from  its  foundation,  so  that  each  may 
have  an  equal  share  in  the  good  gifts  which  of  right  be- 
long to  all." 

Now,  this  last  proposition,  about  upheaving  society,  was 
not  quite  so  clear  to  Rose  as  it  seemed  to  be  to  Cousin 
Leonard ;  but  then,  as  Leonard  said,  "  his  benevolence  was 
large,"  and  Rose  was  glad  that,  under  its  ample  protec- 
tion, she  could  place  the  widow  Brown  and  her  children. 
Telling  the  poor  woman's  story  to  Leonard,  Rose  added, 
that  she  had  no  hesitation  in  asking  him  to  look  in  occa- 
sionally, and  supply  their  wants  while  she  was  gone.  Lento 
promised,  and  took  his  leave,  and  Rose  lay  half  the  night 
thinking  of  her  generous,  kind-hearted  cousin. 

##*#** 

"  Please,  sir,  I  had  to  come  back  again,  for  my  mother 
is  very  sick  this  morning,  and  she  said  I  must  try  and  see 
Mr.  Lento." 

"  Off  with  you,  you  young  torment ;  havn't  I  told  you 
Mr.  Lento  isn't  up  yet  ?  and  I  tell  you  now  he's  not  likely 
to  be  for  an  hour  or  two  to  come." 

The  child  crept  away  shivering  with  cold,  and  returned, 
for  the  second  time,  to  tell  her  tale  of  disappointment  to 


EASE-LOVINO     PHILANTHROPY.  351 

her  sick  mother.  Rose  had  now  been  absent  for  two 
weeks,  and  poor  widow  Brown  was  much  worse,  and  suf- 
fering for  want  of  the  attentions  that  were  to  have  been 
given  by  Mr.  Lento.  Too  indolent  to  rise  o'  mornings, 
he  had  not  seen  the  little  girl ;  and  too  much  taken  up 
with  visiting  and  talking  over  schemes  of  benevolence  in 
the  afternoon,  Leonard  had  quite  forgotten  the  widow  and 
her  children.  Another  week  went  by,  and  the  pale,  tear- 
ful little  girl  again  implored  the  servant  to  let  her  see 
Mr.  Lento.  This  time  he  was  not  at  home,  and  the  man 
told  the  child  that  his  master  would  see  her  mother  in  the 
morning. 

"  Call  me  to-morrow  at  nine,"  said  Leonard,  when  dis- 
missing his  servant  at  night ;  "  one  must  make  some  sacri- 
fice in  the  cause  of  poor  suffering  humanity." 

In  the  morning,  Leonard  was  awoke  by  the  servant : 
"  The  clock  has  struck  nine,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  John,  I'll  be  down  presently." 

When  John  left  the  room,  his  master  slowly  raised  him- 
self in  bed,  taking  care,  as  he  did  so,  to  envelope  himself  in 
the  covering,  -until  but  the  upper  part  of  his  face  was 
visible. 

One  stocking  was  half  engulfed  in  the  blankets,  while 
the  other  lay  so  far  down  on  the  bed,  that  he  would  be 
obliged  to  uncover  his  arm  to  reach  it ;  but  he  thought  of 
poor  suffering  humanity,  and  determined  on  making  the 
sacrifice. 

Turning  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  window,  he  saw, 
to  his  consternation,  that  it  was  snowing,  and  straightway 
fell  to  pitying  the  poor  Irish  lads  who  were  obliged,  by 
clearing  the  side-walks  and  crossings,  to  pick  up  a  stray 
shilling. 


352  EASE-LOVING     PH ILANTHROPYH. 

"  There  ought  to  be  some  machine  to  save  these  half- 
frozen  creatures  from  such  employment  during  the  cold 
weather.  Now,  if  I  could  invent  one,  I  might  gain  a  medal 
from  the  well-to-do-in-the-world-labor-saving  Society ;  stay 
— let  me  see — I  think  the  thing  might  easily  be  done." 
Here  Mr.  Lento  fell  to  thinking,  or  rather  dreaming,  and 
ten  o'clock  came  and  went,  and  he  took  another  look  at  the 
window,  and  drew  the  warm  covering  still  closer,  and 
thought  the  day  was  bitter  cold. 

That  very  morning  Rose  had  returned  home,  and  her 
first  thought  was  of  the  sick  widow  and  her  children. 
"  No  doubt  Cousin  Leonard  has  kept  his  promise,"  thought 
Rose,  as  she  hastened  on  through  the  snow.  "  How  pleas- 
ant it  will  be  for  poor  Mrs.  Brown  to  have  a  cheerful  fire 
this  gloomy  morning,  and  how  it  has  gladdened  his  be- 
nevolent heart  to  send  those  little  delicacies  which  are  so 
gratefully  received  by  the  sick ;  perhaps  he  is  there  now, 
kind  cousin !" 

As  Rose  approached  the  house,  she  looked  up  at  the 
little  window,  expecting  to  see  her  favorite  Nelly,  but  no 
glad  young  face  welcomed  her  return.  With  a  subdued 
feeling  she  ascended  the  creaking  stairs;  a  low  sobbing 
reached  her  ear,  and  as  she  stopped  to  listen,  the  door  of 
the  widow's  room  was  opened,  and  a  poor-looking  woman 
came  out,  holding  Mrs.  Brown's  youngest*  child  by  the 
hand,  and  followed  by  little  Nelly.  When  the  latter  saw 
Rose  her  suppressed  grief  burst  forth. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Brandon,  mother's  dead  !  mother's  dead !" 
Rose  was  shocked.  In  the  cold,  gloomy  room  lay  all  that 
was  mortal  of  the  poor  widow.  The  cupboard  was  open, 
and  on  one  of  the  shelves  lay  a  few  crusts  of  dry  bread. 
Some  half-burnt  shavings  were  scattered  on  the  hearth 


EASE-LOVING     PHILANTHROPY.  353 

And  this  was  all — on  this  wintry  morning,  these  were  all 
the  comforts  within  reach  of  the  dying  woman  ! 

'  Oh  change !  Oh  wondrous  change ! 
Burst  are  the  prison  bars; 
This  moment  there,  so  low, 
So  agonized,  and  now 

Beyond  the  stars!' 

t. 

"  Oh,  Nelly,"  said  Rose,  as  she  held  the  hand  of  the 
weeping  child,  "  why  did  you  not  go  to  the  gentleman  I 
told  you  of?  why  did  you  not  ask  Mr.  Lento  to  come  and 
see  your  mother  ?" 

"  I  did,  Miss  Brandon ;  I  did  go  ever  so  many  times, 
but  the  man  told  me  I  couldn't  see  Mr.  Lento,  for  he 
wasn't  up  yet,  and  it  was  eleven  o'clock  too  before  I  went. 
And  he  promised  to  come  this  morning,  but  he  didn't ; 
and  then  Miss  Smith  ran  all  the  way  there,  and  he  was  in 
bed  yet ;  and  oh,  Miss  Brandon,  I  told  the  man  last  night 
that  mother  was  dying." 

After  all,  aunt  Prudence  and  brother  Frank  were 
right. 

"And  he  could  do  this."  thought  Rose,  "he  who  was 
ever  writing  and  talking  of  making  sacrifices  in  the  cause 
of  poor  suffering  humanity  ;  he  could  slothfully  draw  the 
covering  of  his  curtained  bed  on  such  a  day  as  this,  when 
he  knew  his  aid  was  wanted — when  he  knew,  too,  it  was 
wanted  for  a  sorrow-crushed,  poverty-stricken  woman  who 
was  dying !  Out  upon  such  false  philanthropy !  Thank 
Heaven,  I  have  learned,  ere  too  late,  the  sluggish,  selfish 

heartlessness  of  Leonard  Lento  !" 

• 

THE   END. 


• 


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